Revolution and Retribution
by DJ Sparkles
Summary: Aragorn is forced from his throne by violence and civil war rages in Gondor. Who is behind the rebellion, and how will Aragorn regain his kingdom? NOW COMPLETE!
1. Flight

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth, they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic.**

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making, though it does contain some elements of Evendim's AU. Those are used with permission. I guess you could call this an AU to her AU, although it really is totally separate. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.**

**Revolution and Retribution**

**Chapter One: Flight**

He felt hideous. Not only were the wounds he'd sustained in his flight severe, he'd been laid up here on Amon Sul for four nights, in autumn, with no fire. He couldn't risk detection.

He knew the fever was getting worse, but he still didn't dare light a fire. Not with who knew what kind of creatures seeking him still.

His hands crept to the charm he still wore about his neck. The Evenstar was dulled, tarnished. Soon, Arwen, we will be together again, he whispered in Elvish.

The attack had come unlooked for. No warning had been given, no quarter offered. There'd been no time even to light the beacons. Under cover of night, the

rebels had entered his home and began slaughtering his family. No explanation, no mercy.

The children had been first. He would never forget the sight of them, broken and lifeless in their beds. Nor the sight of Arwen, fighting for her life. She had been almost possessed after seeing the children, she fought like a demon, with no further regard for her own safety or even her life. Seeing her cut down had almost killed him.

Everything he had worked for was gone. His family, his country, his very life, and he had no explanations. The rebels had not offered any demands, merely went about their killing with a methodical cruelty. He knew not what caused their discontent, what had driven them to attack him. All he knew was that his once peaceful kingdom was now embroiled in civil war, and he had been forced to flee.

He couldn't go to the Shire, or Rohan, or even Rivendell, to those few Elves who had chosen to remain in Middle Earth. Those were the first places searchers would check. No, he'd made for the watchtower at Amon Sul, long abandoned, in ruins, but still with a clear view of the surrounding area. The perfect defensive position.

Only he was no longer able to defend it. Loss of blood and fever had combined to finally bring him down. He could barely move, couldn't eat, couldn't even stir himself to drink some of his precious water to calm his thirst. Now, all he could do was wait until Death took him.

He knew it was coming. He could feel its stealthy approach, feel it in the numbness of his limbs, the steadily slowing beat of his heart. He lay quiet, drifting in and out of consciousness, no longer even able to draw his cloak about him for warmth. It would take him before dawn, he was certain.

There was no noise to announce an arrival, but suddenly there was a cool hand on his forehead and a soothing voice crooning reassurances to him. A warm blanket was laid over him, and he heard the sounds of someone preparing a rough and ready campsite. Not that his had been anything to be ashamed of, but certainly they knew what they were doing.

"I've no way to warm it, sire, but you must drink," the voice urged as he was lifted to rest against a definitely female form. "It is not poison, though you might fear that. It is a healing draught, prepared for you by Prince Faramir for when I found you." There was a cup placed to his lips and he obediently opened for it, accepting the bitter potion no matter the contents. He was parched.

He had no strength to thank the newcomer, though the potion definitely was beneficial. Some of the aches and pains of his wounds began to be less fearsome, muted somehow. Or was it simply Death creeping nearer? He couldn't be certain. He tried desperately to speak, but he was able to make no sound.

"Rest easy, sire," was the calm rejoinder from his rescuer. "I am Tanathel, a Ranger from Ithilien, sent by Prince Faramir to find you and bring you to safety. And he also bade me tell you to let the potion work. _Athelas_ works best fresh, but this was the best he could do. I've a few leaves for use when you are a bit stronger. But for now, you should sleep. I shall keep watch. Rest."

He could not argue. He allowed the darkness to claim him, idly wondering if he would wake still upon Middle Earth, or if he would be reunited with his beloved Arwen. Then he slept and knew no more.


	2. Trust

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth, they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic.**

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.**

**Revolution and Retribution **

****

**Chapter Two: Trust **

Aragorn woke near dawn, uncertain at first where he was. Then memory came flooding back, and with it a storm of raw emotion that left him weak and weary once more.

Tanathel stirred in her bedroll and rose quickly, moving to kneel by his side, flask in hand. "Good morning, Sire," she said quietly as she held the flask toward him. "First, drink this, and then we will decide where we might go to be safest. I do not know the area this far North."

Aragorn quickly swallowed the contents of the flask, grimacing at the bitterness of the draught. "_Athelas_ is indeed much better fresh," he remarked as he handed her the container. "I will find some fresh leaves on the morrow, or perhaps later today." He regarded her steadily as he attempted to gain his feet, only to find himself stuck in a seated position once more. "It appears we will be going nowhere for at least another day," he grumbled. "I am still far too weak to defend myself, and I will lay that burden on no other."

"That burden, as you call it, is no burden at all, my liege," Tanathel replied, her tone crisp. "It is my sworn duty, given to me by my Lord Steward Faramir, from his holdings in Ithilien. I will do my duty until my dying breath, or until my lord releases me from it. And at the moment, my lord, you are in no condition to release me from my oath."

Aragorn merely raised an eyebrow at her, biting down on the retort that had come to mind. She was quite right. In his current condition, he couldn't fight off a fly, much less a determined enemy.

"You say Faramir sent you," he began slowly. He certainly wasn't going to win any prizes at the moment for kingly behavior. Or even intelligence, for that matter. He had accepted every word she had spoken as truth, without any real evidence to back her up. "How did he know where I had fled to? I have not been gone more than seven days, if that. Not enough time to have conducted much of a search."

"I am nothing if not resourceful," Tanathel answered evenly. "However, you should know how I found you. You covered your tracks well, quite well. But the traces remained for someone skilled to read." An impish grin stole over her features, though it was quickly banished. "Lord Faramir had a vision, my King. He saw you here, alone, dying, not two days after the City fell to the rebels. I would have missed all trace of you if he had not headed me in the right direction. I have not the skill necessary to have picked up your trail else."

"You have skill to spare, if you found me here on Amon Sul. Weathertop, the locals call it, but it was once a watchtower. There are many hidden places here, any of which I could have been concealed in. Yet you came directly to my side." He gave her a long, measuring glance. "Either you have knowledge you have not spoken of, or you have a skill you do not know." His hand stole to his dagger, still at his side. "I must have proof that Faramir sent you. What can you offer me?" He kept his voice light and noncommittal, but there was an undercurrent of steel to the words.

Tanathel drew herself up and rose from the ground, her face composed, though her body was held rigid with anger. "If I had wished you dead, _Sire,_ I would have slit your throat as you slept," she spat angrily. "Or just let you be until Death took you, which it almost did _despite _the draughts I provided. I most certainly would _not_ have brought word to you that your Steward remained loyal and wished you kept safe." She turned away for a moment, then turned a rueful face back toward her King. "He said you would be difficult to convince. The gauntlets you wear, they were Lord Boromir's, yes? You took them as a reminder of your oath to him as he lay dying at Amon Hen."

Aragorn felt his pulse quicken. Indeed, he and Faramir had discussed this very topic as a possible pass-phrase if the worst happened. He gazed into the middle distance, carefully avoiding her too sharp eyes. "I did indeed. Tell me, what passed between Boromir and myself?" Only Faramir had truly known the words passed between Aragorn and Boromir in those final moments, and then, only because he had seen it in a vision, long after the fact, and questioned Aragorn about the truth of the matter.

_Flashback:_

_Boromir had been pierced by many arrows and was dying when Aragorn had knelt by his side. All his strength was being used to get a final message out, a final warning. "They took the little ones."_

_Aragorn had tried to have him conserve his strength, but Boromir would have none of it. "Frodo. Where is Frodo?"_

_"I let Frodo go."_

_"Then you did what I could not." The words were spoken around a rill of blood that had begun to seep from Boromir's mouth, and Aragorn had known there was no more time for Boromir. "I tried to take the Ring from him."_

_"The Ring is beyond our reach now."_

_"Forgive me." Again the blood flowed, sluggishly, but still draining away the warrior's life, drop by drop from each wound. "I did not see it. I have failed you all."_

_"No, Boromir. You fought bravely. You have kept your honor." Aragorn moved to pull one of the arrows from its resting place in Boromir's chest and Boromir's hand stayed his own. _

_"Leave it," he murmured. "It is over. The world of Men will fall. And all will come to darkness…and my city to ruin."_

_That had been the breaking point for Aragorn. Tears welled in his eyes at the nobility if the man dying at his side, a man he had only lately become to think of as a friend. "I do not know what strength is in my blood," he began, desperately trying to return hope to the warrior, "but I swear to you, I will not let the White City fall… nor our people fail."_

_"Our people," he returned, his breathing becoming more labored. "Our people." Boromir looked hopeful again for one brief second as his hand searched for something. Aragorn placed the hilt of his sword in the questing hand, knowing what his friend would wish, now. He had stood firmly behind Aragorn's claim since Lothlorien, though the Ring had attempted to seduce him away from that path, and nearly succeeded. _

_Boromir's breath began to hitch slightly as he pulled the hilt to his chest and faced Aragorn squarely, knowledge of his death still in his eyes, alongside a new-kindled hope that perhaps, this Ranger from the North would be able to do the impossible and reclaim the throne of Gondor. "I would have followed you, my brother." Words were becoming more and more difficult. "My captain." A swallow to clear his throat. "My King." A few more slight breaths, and he was gone. _

_Aragorn had wept for the loss of his friend, his brother-in-arms. Pressing a kiss to Boromir's brow had bought him valuable time to compose himself, yet he was still weeping when he spoke the final words. "Be at peace, Son of Gondor."_

_He had risen, and swiftly he and his companions had arrayed the noble warrior for burial, using one of the Elven boats they had been gifted with, and Aragorn had claimed the vambraces from Boromir's arms before they had sent Boromir over the Falls of Rauros with much reverence. These would serve as a reminder to him what he had promised, and what he owed to his people. It was at that moment that he knew he must return to Gondor. He had wavered a few times afterword, but always the vambraces had reminded him of the debt he owed Boromir, and of his destiny as the King of the West._

Tanathel had recited, word for word, the sequence of events at Amon Hen as Aragorn had given them to Faramir. Aragorn breathed a sigh of relief and smiled slightly. "It affects you as well," he murmured.

Tanathel turned red-rimmed eyes to him. "Aye, my lord, it affects me greatly to know Lord Boromir died with his honor intact. That was always important to him." She stiffened once more, glaring at Aragorn, almost daring him to distrust her further. "Have I satisfied your questions, Sire?"

Aragorn was able to rise, finally, and touched her arm lightly. "You have, Tanathel. You are impertinent, disrespectful, and utterly rude, but I find that refreshing at the moment." He grinned. "All things a Ranger should be. "Come, I will show you where we might make a fire and be more comfortable. Then we have many things to plan."


	3. Spellbound

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth, they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic.**

****

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

****

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.**

****

**Revolution and Retribution**

****

**Chapter Three: Spellbound**

He was cold.

He had been cold since he had fallen at Amon Hen, but something had held him here in the chill. He neither felt, truly, nor saw, nor tasted, heard, or touched. But he was aware.

Aware enough to know that this was _not _as it should be. He should have passed into the company of his ancestors long since. After all, he was dead… yet he remained in this lifeless limbo.

He 'felt' sometime pulling at him, and 'turned' to follow the tug. All was black in this place, but he still had a sense of direction, though he could not see. He longed for a last glimpse of his brother, but it was not to be.

He followed the sensation to its conclusion, but something else replaced it almost instantly.

Pain. He heard a voice crying out, screaming at the horrible agonies it was enduring, and barely recognized it as his own. How could he be screaming when he was dead? How could he feel pain when dead? What was happening to him? Was this his punishment, then, for trying to gain the Ring from Frodo? Had Sauron triumphed in the end? Was that why all was darkness?

Chanting began to make itself heard somewhere above his head. His head? He shouldn't be able to feel his head! He was a disembodied spirit!

"Come to me, now, Boromir! Open your eyes, see what I have wrought! See how you live, hale and whole! See who has brought you back from the abyss!" Then the chanting continued, in a language Boromir had never heard, nor, truth to tell, did he ever wish to hear again.

His eyes opened of their own accord and he shivered convulsively. Isengard!

Many changes had been made since the last time he had beheld it, but it was still unmistakable to his gaze. As was Saruman, older and more withered than before, but still exuding an aura of power as he had always done.

Boromir tried to look about him, but his body would not yet obey his commands. His lips formed words, but no sound emerged.

"Yes, I see you understand," Saruman crooned as he laid one withered hand against Boromir's pale cheek. "I have beaten back Death for you, my Lord Boromir, and you shall serve me as payment."

Something snapped into place inside his head and suddenly Boromir was able to move. Still he had no control over his voice, though, and so was unable to tell the wizard exactly what he could do with his demand for service! Never would he betray his people! The Orcs that had come upon them at Amon Hen had been wearing the White hand of Saruman, that much he knew. They had been doing his bidding, which labeled him a threat to Gondor. Never would he serve this foul creature from the depths!

He threw himself to his feet, automatically reaching out to strangle the wizard, but found that his hand stopped some inches short of the target and would go no further. He cursed long and loudly in his mind.

"You see? You cannot harm me, Man of the West. You will do my will." Saruman took a step backward with a small crooked smile. "Grima!" he called, and Wormtongue slithered into view. "Take him and outfit him in my livery. Then, bring him to the Tower, that I may show him his beloved White City."

Grima nodded and scurried to do his master's bidding. "Come, now, Boromir, you mustn't keep him waiting," he hissed as he led the way into the armory. Boromir still could not speak, but nodded to show he understood, though inwardly he was seething. No more would he wear the livery of Orthanc than he would wear that of Mordor itself! His loyalties would always lie with Gondor!

They climbed the steps to the Tower shortly after, and Boromir gasped at the changes wrought outside the great Tower of Orthanc. No more did the trees surround and protect Isengard. Now, it was a seething pit of mud and ash.

Much had been flooded, it was obvious, but the damage was being repaired. It was slow going, but the Orcs that crawled and scurried through the muck seemed to have things moving along.

Boromir nearly flinched at the sight of the massive Uruk-hai. Those creatures it had been, one in particular, that had stolen away his little ones, indeed, his very life! He could not abide the thought of being forced to work alongside them.

"Come, Boromir, come to my side," Saruman purred as he indicated a glowing pool in front of him. "Come, and we will see what has transpired in your beloved City."

The glow faded as he stepped nearer, and then the clear water revealed the city of Minas Tirith, though not at all the way Boromir remembered it. Bodies lay everywhere, left to rot where they had fallen. The Citadel itself was unharmed, but all the rest of the City was in ruins. He would have cried out at the massacre had he voice to do so. Tears welled up in his eyes at the thought that he had failed, utterly. His City had fallen.

Aragorn. Aragorn had sworn to him that the White City would not fall.

He had lied.

In that moment, Boromir's grief knew no bounds. With his voice finally rediscovered, he gave a great cry of grief and horror, falling to his knees. Aragorn had either failed, or…

…or he had taken the Ring for himself and set himself up as Sauron's replacement. Boromir knew how quickly, how subtly the Ring could take hold of one's mind. If it had taken Aragorn…

He turned wet eyes to Saruman, firmly pulling his emotions into tight control. "How do I know what you show me is truth," he finally managed to grind out. "You have deceived many before me. I must know."

Saruman merely nodded toward the scene in the water. It had changed again, now showing the bodies of the Royal Family in their final places. The only one missing was Aragorn. "The rebels slew his family and would have slain him as well, had he not fled," he explained patiently. His voice, Boromir remembered his voice was dangerous, but he could discern no falsehood in the words. "He has been a harsh, cruel ruler, and the people of Minas Tirith rose against him. He has lost all that gave him meaning, but he must still be stopped. If he remains free, he shall raise an army and return." The scene switched again, showing Faramir imprisoned with… was that Eowyn of Rohan? It must surely be… and being 'questioned' most vigorously about his King's whereabouts.

Faramir. Faramir held true to his loyalty to the King, saying nothing, fighting to keep his pain inside. Faramir would not be fooled so easily. Saruman must be lying! But this would have to be handled carefully. If the wizard even suspected that Boromir was not firmly under his sway, there would be the devil to pay, and all his work would go for naught.

Saruman put a comforting hand on Boromir's shoulder, and he had to fight back the urge to throw it from him. Instead, he let the tears flow once more. "What must I do?" he choked out. He must be free to work his way to his King and find the truth! And the only way he would leave Isengard, he was certain, was to either swear allegiance to the wizard or to die again. And having regained his life, by whatever means, he was not going to throw it away again! He _would_ find the truth!

**TBC**


	4. Old Friends

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth, they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien.  Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic.

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making.  It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age.  Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read.  This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series.  And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day.  I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it.  Don't ever change.**

**Author's Note #2: The drinking song in this chapter was taken directly from the ROTK DVD.  Proper nods to all involved, writers, creators, and of course the actors who gave it life.  **

**Revolution and Retribution**

Chapter Four: Old Friends 

Aragorn nodded over to the Ranger across from him.  "Again," he demanded.  "What strength have we, what _loyal_ troops can we count on?  Have we any at all?"

"We could not tell before I left Minas Tirith, sire," Tanathel snapped back.  "As I've told you a thousand times, now."  She threw her hands into the air in the ageless symbolism of 'I give up!'  "And don't you dare throw rank at me, you arrogant, overbearing, pigheaded, ridiculous excuse for a Ranger!  _How_ you claimed the throne is beyond me.  You may be Isildur's Heir, but you have no business being allowed out without a keeper!"

"That will be quite enough!" Aragorn returned forcefully.  "I did not want the throne.  I _never_ wanted the throne.  But by all I hold dear, all I _held _dear, and all the blood shed to destroy Sauron and bring peace to Gondor, I _will_ reclaim it!"  He was on his feet, his breathing steady, but he felt as though he had run a race. 

It did _not_ help his confidence any to realize he had fallen neatly into the trap she had closed about him.  Tanathel was smiling widely, indicating she had expected as much. 

"He was right, it does do to wind you up occasionally," she said with a laugh as she extended her hand in apology.  "Captain Faramir mentioned that you might sometimes lose sight of what you were working toward.  Not a flaw, mind you, just that you needed reminding."

"Faramir is a shrewd officer, and an even better Steward.  I only hope he survives this madness that has taken hold.  Your horse is below?"  At her nod he grinned.  "Think you I came all this way on foot?"

She shook her head.  "It would be impossible, even for you.  It was unbelievable that you had covered so much ground in only three days, searching for the hobbits.  From Amon Hen to Fangorn Forest is a stretch of the imagination, but you proved your mettle there.  But from Minas Tirith to Amon Sul in seven days?  Absolutely impossible on foot."

He clapped her on the shoulder.  "You've intelligence to spare, Tanathel.  Come.  I'll introduce you to Brego, and we will ride tonight for Bree.  It is not far.  And the only thing you need fear in Bree is a forgetful Innkeeper who will keep his silence for the protection I have given him in the past.  From there, we can summon some friends who will help us unobtrusively."  Unobtrusive wasn't exactly the word he would use for Peregrine Took, but he knew the Hobbit was loyal to him, he and Merry as well.  Merry could head for Rohan with no one the wiser why he went, as he was still regarded as a Rohirrim.  Holdwine of the Mark could visit his friends in the Riddermark without being questioned about his motives.  And Pippin, bless him, was still sworn to service in the Citadel.  He'd be recalled as soon as things were sorted out in the White City, and Aragorn would have someone on the inside.  Pippin could dissemble with the best of them.  And of course, Sam's help would be considerable as well. 

"Bree?  Quaint name," Tanathel replied quietly.  "The names here in the North are all strange to me, but… Bree?  It doesn't sound likely to give us much aid."

"Not in Bree, no, unless you count being hidden well as aid.  No, our aid will come from the Shire."

"Shire?  Another strange name, though one I have heard before.  You intend to recall those left of the Fellowship then?"

"Aye, and they will rally to my side."  Aragorn waited for her to retrieve her mount, then whistled for Brego, who came running up and slid to a stop, as though expecting more action and disappointed to find only Aragorn and Tanathel waiting.

_"Hannon lle, mellon-nin,"_ Aragorn spoke to the steed.  No one in Rohan could tame him, yet the Ranger from the North had done so.  He swung himself astride with neither bridle nor saddle and Tanathel marveled at how well the horse responded to him.  She had heard tales of the beast, most everyone had.  How he tolerated Aragorn and no other to ride him, and how he shunned the security of the stables in favor of running free over the Pelennor. 

"Do you always ride without harness?" she asked him, real concern in her voice. 

"Only with Brego," he replied evenly.  "Now, we must make for Bree."  Unbidden, his mind took him back to his Ranger days.  Those first days with the Hobbits, he had wondered if he would go mad from the sheer joyfulness of them.  Then he had come to look forward to their antics as a way of holding to hope, when all hope seemed gone.  He needed that now, more than ever he had needed it on the Quest.  He needed to know that life would go on, that he could still help his people.

Bree was much the same as it had ever been, to his relief.  The _Prancing Pony_ seemed to be doing a flourishing trade, and he called a halt before the stableyard.  Only then did Tanathel realize that her King had discarded his finery in favor of his leathers, and had begun to take on a rather unkempt look.  It would be a good disguise, she knew, but the change startled her.  It was as if she were watching him turn into another person entirely, though he still had an air of command about him.

Strider, he was now, and he kept it firmly in mind as he arranged stabling for the horses and gestured for Tanathel to accompany him inside.  A calm word to Brego ensured his behavior, and they were able to step into the taproom with little or no fuss.

The Innkeeper bustled up to them, his smile broad.  "Well, now, sir and lady, if you're looking for accommodations, I've a few rooms yet available.  Nice and airy, they are, with windows open on the West."

Strider lowered his hood, facing the Innkeeper squarely, and was pleased to find his face at least remembered.  "Well, that won't do for Strider, surely!" he exclaimed.  "I've your old room ready, if that's more to your liking, and can find one for the lady as well, nearby if you like, and no questions asked." 

"That would be best, sir," Strider answered calmly as he scanned the room.  "Next door, if you can arrange that for the lady, and food for two.  We've been on the road for days."  An exaggeration, but it would establish that Strider and the King were not the same man.  "Whatever is in the pot, Butterbur, you know I am not too particular."

As the man scurried to do his bidding, Tanathel rounded on Strider.  "I should be in the same room!" she hissed angrily.  "How am I to protect you from a different room?"

"There will be no trouble here, Tanathel, trust me on this.  Come, we will see our rooms and then take a place on the edges of this company, to see what news there is of Gondor."  He shouldered past her and headed up the stairway.  She followed, still stinging from what she saw as his rejection of her protection. 

He closed the door firmly behind her as she entered and rounded on her.  "Have you no thought for your reputation, woman?" he began as he unfastened his gauntlets.  "That you and I are together here as Rangers does not automatically make you my shieldmate.  Would you prefer to be thought of that way?"

Hot blood flooded her face and she stammered something too garbled to understand, and he nodded.  "As I thought.  Food will be here shortly, if I know Butterbur at all, and then you will go to your own rooms to sleep when we come back up from the common room.  And that is _not_ a request."

She nodded crisply, used to following orders.  They ate quietly when the food was brought, though Tanathel thought to praise the ale, which was beyond anything she had tasted before, but one look from Strider not only quelled her enthusiasm for the drink, but her desire for more.  So she remained silent, wondering what plans he was making in that devious mind of his. 

He donned his cloak once more, and she followed suit, and they headed for the back stair to the common room.  All at once, Strider stiffened and stopped dead in his tracks, listening.

Tanathel heard nothing save voices raised in a drinking song she had not heard before. 

Oh you can search far and wide 

_You can drink the whole town dry_

_But you'll never find a beer so brown_

_As the one we drink in our hometown_

_You can drink your fancy ales_

_You can drink 'em by the flagon_

_But the only brew for the brave and true_

_Comes from the Green Dragon!_

Strider stood still, barely controlling his mirth.  The sheer audacity of those two, praising another Inn while inside the _Pony_, it could only be Merry and Pippin and from the sounds of things, they were well into their cups already.  He needed to find a way to bring them out of the room unobtrusively.

Tanathel slipped away unnoticed by Strider and made for the other side of the common room, finding a table and settling herself at it, her hood drawn low so not to be noticed.  It didn't matter if someone saw the Ranger garb, they had seen it before and she had purposely removed any indication of what land she called home.  Who knew how far this plot reached? 

She had been quite willing to distrust his friends, as well, but from what she was seeing from the two Little Folk, it would take years and years of training in subterfuge and deception to keep them from spilling everything they had been told over a flagon of ale.  They had an air of… not quite innocence, exactly, but rather, loyalty.  Trustworthiness, for lack of a better word.

Strider settled in beside her, pipe in use and she wished for some pipeweed of her own, as well as her pipe, far away in Ithilien.  "They must have known we were coming," he said softly.  "That is the same song they sang at Edoras, when we returned from the battle at Helm's Deep.  It is a way of showing their support, only quite subtle.  They've been learning."  He couldn't quite stifle the grin the thought gave him.  Subtlety was never one of the duo's strong points.  They must have been coached on this.

Merry staggered slightly, feigning much more drunkenness than he actually felt, and managed to bump Pippin, who had practically a full pint which spilled down his front.  "Steady on, Merry!  Seems I'm destined to forever lose half my beer when I come to the _Pony!"_

Merry got just a bit closer, as though he needed help standing.  "In the corner, Pippin, you twit!" he hissed.  "If that's not him, I'm an Ent."  A little louder, he announced, "You'll have to help me to our rooms, Peregrin-me-lad, and ye can change yer shirt whilst we're up there.  Come on, then, let's have a bit o' support, here!"

The duo went up the stairs, leaning on each other crazily, and Strider moved to follow.  Tanathel didn't quite scurry after him, but she was hard pressed to keep up, though her legs were almost as long as his.  They closed the door to Strider's room with a little more force than was necessary and waited.

They waited for nothing.  Tanathel whirled, blade in hand, when a voice from behind them piped up, in typical Hobbit fashion.  "Well, now, it took ye long enough.  What's to be done, then, Strider?  Or should I say, King Elessar?"


	5. More Old Friends

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth, they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic.

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.**

**Author's note: For all those waiting patiently for updates to _By Honor Betrayed, _I'm sorry it's taking so long. I will be finishing it, but it is no longer the top priority in my life. I just need to step back from it for a while. **

**Revolution and Retribution**

Chapter Five: More Old Friends 

"Now just hold on a minute!" Merry barked as he swiftly countered Tanathel's move with a chair. "We're here to help!" A sudden jerk of the wrist and the legs of the chair had neatly disarmed the startled Ranger. Pippin grabbed the sword as it flew away and pulled it behind Strider, and Merry pinned Tanathel to the wall with the chair. "Now, if we could just get a word in, lady, you would see that we came here, if not completely unarmed, at least with no intent to cause harm to Strider." He held the chair firmly in place, though the woman would have been able to make quick work of him had she been able to get her hands free. They were pinned neatly between the slats of the little wooden chair and the wall.

Strider collapsed onto the bedframe, struggling to control the laughter that threatened and failing miserably. He was forcefully reminded of the scene in Hollin where the terrible two had neatly tripped up Boromir, rendering him flat on his back and unarmed within seconds, and had then proceeded to give Aragorn the same treatment when he attempted to separate them. He rolled backward, holding his belly against the torture of laughter, then went suddenly silent and solemn as his fingers closed about the charm he always wore at his neck.

Merry and Pippin noted the change, as did Tanathel, and by unspoken agreement they ceased their antics and closed in about Strider, offering support and comfort in the only way they knew how.

Hobbits being very tactile creatures, they enfolded the grieving man in tight embraces, Pippin stroking his hair lightly and crooning some nonsensical song about cares vanishing into the mist. Merry simply held Aragorn, his eyes closed tightly against the pain he felt coming from his friend.

Tanathel withdrew to the far side of the room, settling herself in a chair by the fire and regarding the flames silently, wishing for a pipe. These Hobbits were amazing creatures, she mused. From laughter to sorrow in the space of a breath, yet somehow remaining quite untouched by either. Their quiet strength permeated the room as they consoled their friend.

Silence reigned until a discreet knock was heard at the door. Tanathel quickly went to the doorway, setting herself ready beside it in case of trouble, and the Hobbits made themselves scarce, keeping out of sight behind the bed. Aragorn nodded slightly to Tanathel, who threw the door wide and grabbed for their unexpected guest, only to find herself holding open air as the new arrival easily sidestepped her and moved into the room. She closed the door quickly, blocking the exit, her hand on the dagger in her belt, waiting for a sign from her lord.

The hooded figure regarded her steadily, but she could see no trace of the face beneath the hood. It was unnerving to say the least, and she felt her grip tightening on the hilt of her weapon as it turned away from her to approach Strider.

She was moving closer to the stranger, determined not to risk her King, when Strider's upraised hand halted her in her tracks. She waited, tense, almost quivering, while he looked the stranger up and down.

An eternity of a moment later, the hood was thrown back and Strider rose to embrace his friend. _"Mae Govannen, Legolas,_" he murmured softly. "Dare I hope you have brought others?"

"I came to fetch you to them," Legolas Greenleaf replied evenly as he took in his friend's haggard appearance. "I have news. You are being hunted, Aragorn. A company of Uruk-hai was seen leaving Isengard two days past, with a Man at the head of their column. I know not who he is, but he wears the livery of the White Hand, and the Uruks obey his every command." He placed a gentle hand on Aragorn's forearm. "Come, be at peace for a time. None shall find you in Eryn Lasgalen, the Greenwood that is my home. And from there, we can begin plans to restore you to your throne."

"We have already begun," Aragorn said simply as he gestured to Tanathel. "Merry, Pippin, you know what to do."

"Oh, aye, we do," Pippin burst out quickly. "I've been recalled, just as you might expect. Probably want to find out how loyal I am to ye, Sire. Instructions?"

"Do just as we planned, the last time we discussed the possibility. The _remote_ possibility, I believe you mentioned." Aragorn nodded his head toward the Hobbit, his eyes shadowed. "Take no action to suggest that you are anything but loyal to your post. Whoever is holding the strings will order you as I have, Peregrin, Guard of the Citadel. The deception must hold. You must appear loyal to the uniform and not the man."

"And I've my pony in the stables, being loaded with provisions for a trip to Rohan. My gear is in my room here, with Pip's. I'm off for my yearly tour at first light. And while I'm there, I can have a discreet word with Eomer, see what he's heard. Might even be able to rally a few troops to patrol along the border." Merry gave Aragorn a wink.

"Good. Tanathel, I have a special errand for you." She brought herself to attention, a bit overwhelmed by the fact that it seemed everything had been planned out well in advance of the actual rebellion. "First, you must see Sam in Hobbiton. From there ---"

"Sam's given us a bit of a message for ye, Aragorn," Pippin broke in quickly. "He says to tell you civil war in Gondor is ridiculous, and he'll keep his ear to the ground. He also said he's arranged to have some of the more adventurous youngsters listening for rumors and gossip, and will send word with one of them if there's any hint of who's behind this."

"Saruman." Tanathel's voice was flat and cold. "If he has sent out a troop to track the King, then _he_ is the power behind this."

"I was getting to that," Pippin said quickly, trying not to snap. "Sam says that he'll send word with one of the young'uns whenever he hears anything to do with Saruman, or whatever is happening in Gondor. He also said, and we've thought this for a bit now, that it's time the Shirefolk took notice of things beyond their own borders. What threatens the world outside our borders, soon enough will threaten us. And if a small few of us can keep the rest in blissful ignorance, it's a small price to pay."

Aragorn smiled grimly. "Then do what you must. Tanathel, I must ask you to undertake a dangerous journey. I will not order you to do this. I cannot in good conscience do so. Nevertheless, I must ask."

Tanathel stiffened her stance and gave him her full parade ground attention. "I am a Ranger of Ithilien, my lord, and sworn to your service. What are your orders, sir?"

TBC


	6. Tangled Webs

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth, they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic.

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.**

**Revolution and Retribution**

Chapter Six: Tangled Webs   
  
The Northern Wilds 

Boromir signaled his troop to a stop and reined in his mount, eyes searching. Surely Aragorn would have gone to ground somewhere near here. Rivendell had been his home for a time, as had the Wilds of the North. Somewhere between, the man would have sought shelter.

Boromir thought back upon what Saruman had seen fit to tell him about his quarry. Wounded, desperate, Aragorn had taken a headlong flight North. His trail had gone cold, however, and nothing had been seen or heard of him. It was as if he had vanished into the mists.

Not for the first time did Boromir wish he could speak with his brother. Faramir was the better tracker of the two, of course, but that was not the only reason. Why, _why_ had Aragorn run roughshod over the very people he had sworn to protect? It made no sense to Boromir, and he cared little for nonsense.

He kept his mind on the scene Saruman had shown him in the water. He did not think the wizard had intended for him to see Faramir imprisoned, for the focus had shifted quickly away. And everything the wizard had shown him, had said to him, smacked of falsehood. Everything in him, in his very being, was crying out against what he had been told.

Boromir had been a soldier long enough to trust his gut. And his gut instinct was telling him he was being used, and badly. The fact that he was leading a company of Uruk-hai alone would attest to that fact.

"Why have we stopped?" one of the Uruks demanded. Boromir glared down at him from the saddle.

"Because I wish to stop for a moment. I am trying to think like our quarry." He gazed across the field for a moment and his gaze stopped at a distant hill. "Amon Sul," he breathed.

He wheeled his horse to face his 'men' and glared at them. "This is not a killing mission," he said slowly, his voice hard. "We are to take him alive and unharmed at all costs. Those are our orders from Saruman. Alive and unharmed." He turned again, his eyes on the distant ruins of the watchtower, his mind whirling with possibilities. "Move out!"

Outside The Prancing Pony, Bree 

****

Tanathel slipped into the stableyard, her heart pounding, though her passage made no sound whatsoever. Soft and silent as a shadow she was, blending in with the nightly noises and darkness.

Her horse she harnessed quickly and furtively, and she led the stallion into the darkness behind the stable, stopping for a bare moment to wrap some purloined fabric around his hooves, to muffle the sound of her departure. She must not be missed until it was too late.

Once astride, she urged the bay stallion into an easy lope, not pushing him yet, waiting for the moment when speed would be all that stood between her and certain death. Then, when she had put enough distance between herself and the sleeping people of Bree, she reined to a stop and looked down into her hand.

In her open palm lay a charm, the glisten of metal utterly spent, tarnished and lifeless.

The Evenstar.

Inside the Prancing Pony, Bree 

"Has she gone?"

Aragorn nodded, his face grim. "Aye, she's clear." He turned to his companions, his heart heavy. "Let us hope she succeeds. I have no wish to have sent her to death."

Pippin had brought his gear from his room, as had Merry, and both were finishing their travel outfits. Pippin had once more donned the Black and Silver of the Tower Guard of Gondor, and Merry arrayed in the armor gifted him by Eomer-King of Rohan, after the Ring War. Both could have looked utterly ridiculous, being Hobbits, but instead they looked rather dangerous, and perfectly capable of protecting themselves.

Pippin turned to Aragorn, his own expression hard. "She knew the risks, and she accepted them. You didn't order her to go. She went of her own will. You didn't send her anywhere."

Merry stepped up as well. "Quit being such a ninny! You're the King, Aragorn. It's time you stopped hiding in the shadows and started acting like it! It isn't like you to be so bloody indecisive. What's happened to you?"

"What's happened to me?" Aragorn almost couldn't believe the question. "I have had _everything_ that gave my life meaning stolen from me!" he hissed, fury in every syllable. "My wife, the one woman I fought for, waited for, almost died for, is dead, _murdered_ for a parcel of land! My children, my _innocent_ children, were _slaughtered_ in their beds for the sole reason that they were _mine._ Tell me, Master Brandybuck, how would that affect you? Would you be the same man, had that happened to you? Would you be willing to send those you are responsible for to torture and death without a qualm? If you say yes, you are a liar. But until you can answer yes and _mean_ it, keep silent about the change in me!"

Merry was suitably abashed, but Aragorn took pity on his friend and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Forgive me, my friend, that was unforgivably cruel. I would wish this on no other. But I give you my oath, Merry, that those responsible for this will be found and brought to justice."

Pippin shrugged his travel cloak on and grinned to Aragorn, though sorrow still showed in his eyes. "We'll start on that now, Strider," he said quietly as he grasped the door fastener. "I'm off, and Merry will follow in about an hour. We've both orders to go, so no one will remark on it. But I'd suggest you and Legolas be gone as soon as possible."

He was gone before Aragorn could form an answer, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Legolas stepped forward to stand behind Aragorn, one hand on his friend's shoulder in reassurance.

Merry clicked his tongue. "Nothing to forgive, Strider," he remarked softly, but couldn't meet the King's eyes. "And Pip's right. Who knows who might be watching? Elves aren't exactly common sights any more. If anyone saw his Majesty here, you could be in a world of hurt. You can't trust anyone."

"Even you?" Aragorn replied, a twinkle in his eye as he tipped Merry's face up. "Your point is taken, my friend, and we will take care. As soon as you are safely off toward Edoras we will disappear."

Merry stopped just short of stamping his foot, but then grinned. "You'd better. That's all I'll say."

Minas Tirith 

****

Faramir hung motionless from his chains, the occasional soft moan the only indication that he yet lived. Blood dripped in slow rivulets from the lashes on his bare back.

"He has told us nothing, my lord," the inquisitor said with a bow.

Saruman strode forward and grasped Faramir by the hair, dragging his face upward. "Where has he gone, Steward?" he demanded, his voice strong yet a subtle note of reassurance could be heard. "All you must do is give me Elessar's hiding place, and I will have the Healers tend your wounds. Come now, Faramir, you know I regret bringing you harm. Tell me what I wish and you will be set free and healed."

Faramir managed to open one eye and glared at the wizard. "I will tell you nothing," he ground out between clenched teeth. "Especially as I have no knowledge of his position now. Nor do I know if he yet lives."

"Oh, Faramir, Faramir," Saruman cajoled. "Surely you can do better than that. Come now, tell us where he is and you can go free." His voice turned deadly. "Or, we could see how your loving wife fares under Grima's care."

Faramir strained at his manacles, almost managing to move forward an inch or so, striving to get his hands on the wizard, and Saruman allowed the tiniest of smiles to cross his lips. "It touches a nerve, does it not? The idea that another man might have your wife. That another man could possibly take her from you? Well, we shall see." He signaled Grima forward.

"Saruman! By all I hold dear, you shall pay for this!" Faramir raged as Grima unlocked the door to Eowyn's cell and dragged her forward. She was bruised and battered, but remained unbowed, her chin held up defiantly.

"Do not waste your fury on him, my lord," Eowyn snapped, and Grima backhanded her, sending her to the floor. She lay still and silent and Grima gathered her up and departed with her.

Faramir cursed them, struggling futilely with his chains, and continued long after the door to the room had been closed and barred, leaving him alone.

TBC…


	7. Deceptions

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth, they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic.

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.**

**Revolution and Retribution**

Chapter Seven: Deceptions _Amon Sul_

Boromir had dismounted and moved up the side of Amon Sul alone, not wishing the Uruks to spoil any traces that might have been left for him to read. Again he cursed the fact that Faramir was not with him. His 'Puss' could read a trail left by an ant, whereas Boromir was not very adept at tracking. His skill lay with his blade and shield.

These signs were so open they could have been read by a blind man however. What had Aragorn been thinking? He would no more have left such an obvious campsite to be found than he would have taken the Ring from Frodo.

Boromir knelt by the remains of the camp, his mind whirling with possibilities. He, like his brother, had been able to read men's hearts quite well. It was a necessary skill in the military. It let you know just whom you could trust.

Aragorn had sworn that he'd let Frodo go. If he had, if he had spoken the truth to Boromir, then the Ring had not gone to Gondor. A few other hints and slips he'd heard among the Uruks had confirmed his guess, as well. Aragorn had not lied to him. The Ring had been destroyed, as it was meant to be.

Which left him in a rather awkward predicament. How could he help his King while the wizard controlled him? He had tried once to break Saruman's hold on him, and the result was agonizingly clear.

A sound nearby drew his attention and he stood quickly, keeping silent and searching the darkness for signs. Hoofbeats; one rider, and the sound was muffled, making the direction hard to discern.

Aragorn had not been alone at this site. The signs were plentiful, and the discarded remnants of his Kingly garb had not been hidden well enough to avoid discovery.

It still puzzled him, though. The man he knew, the one he had journeyed with from Rivendell, would never have been so careless. Unless…

Boromir went back to join his company and remounted, preferring not to answer the Uruks' demands for information. Silently, he signaled them to move out, and indicated the direction. He would pursue this mysterious rider, who traveled with muffled hooves. At the very least, the quarry would have an interesting tale to tell, for the need of stealth was not so great as it had been before the Ring War. If it was Aragorn, so much the better.

South of Bree 

****

Tanathel reined in and halted, uncertain. The hairs on the back of her neck were prickling, and she had soldiered for too long to ignore such a clear warning from her senses. Someone was following her.

A hoarse cry on her right startled her, and she wheeled the stallion about, searching for the cause. He pranced restlessly under her, and she managed one moment to pat his neck reassuringly. "Easy, Dancer," she murmured as her eyes swept the trees. "There will be time enough for speed soon. Very soon."

She saw nothing in the trees, but the feeling of being watched would not leave her. She forced herself to appear calm, though her heart was hammering in her chest. Slowly, she turned her mount again toward the faraway city of Minas Tirith. Her fingers shook, and she fought to still them.

With an explosion of sound, Uruks poured from the trees and she gathered herself, bringing her blade into play almost without thought. Hacking and slicing she had almost won through when another rider appeared on the road before her. More Uruks followed him and surrounded her, dragging her from her horse and pummeling her with their heavy fists.

Why weren't they using their weapons? She couldn't spare a moment's thought for the question. She lost her sword in the melee and pulled her dagger, bloodying the next few Uruks who came near, giving them pause. She was still surrounded, but they were keeping their distance now.

The rider closed with them and the Uruks reluctantly gave way to allow him into the circle. Tanathel was bruised and blood ran down her forearm from where one of the foul creatures had raked her with its nails, but her grip on the dagger was firm and she glared at the newcomer, daring him to move closer.

The man dismounted, the moonlight glinting on the device on his chest, and she drew in a deep breath. The White Hand! So this was the troop that had been following her King! Perhaps there were answers to be found here, though she had little hope of escaping to deliver them. Still, her King was depending on her, and she would not fail him.

Steel clearing leather drew her attention back to the man and she forced herself to take several deep, calming breaths. If he attacked her now, she might be able to land a few strikes, but she was certain she would not be able to beat him. Not with her only using the dagger. His sword gave him more than double the reach of her blade, and she had no illusions. She was good but not that good. Still, she must not be taken easily. She would mark him before the end.

"Drop your weapon and you'll not be harmed," the man ordered her, and she went quite still. She had heard that voice before, oh, yes. Everyone in Gondor knew that voice. Or at least, those born before the Ring War.

The dagger dropped from suddenly trembling fingers and she shivered. How could this be? Boromir was dead, had fallen during the Quest. It had to be a trick! "Who are you?" she demanded. "How dare you attack me? I am on an errand that will brook no delay!"

"Your errand, sad to say, is being delayed. Give me your name, Ranger, and tell me of this errand." Yes, that was indeed the voice of Boromir, Captain-General of Gondor's armies. Her mind began to whirl. It was impossible! But --- if he were here, wearing the livery of Orthanc --- Valar, Saruman was much more powerful than they had realized! The King must be warned!

She stood still, her body stiff, as he approached her. "Why will you not speak?" Boromir asked softly as he neared her, his voice nevertheless carrying across the clearing. "You should. My… company… enjoys the companionship of women."

Tanathel was sure she heard a hint of disgust in his voice. "I am on an errand to Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and Lord Steward of Gondor," she spat. "Delay me no further!" The breeze had freshened and she welcomed it on her damp skin. What was going on?

"Indeed. I think a little detour would be in order." Boromir turned to the Uruks. "Bind her hands and bring her. Perhaps Saruman will be able to loosen her tongue."

Cords were brought and she was swiftly bound, but before she could be brought forward to Boromir, the moonlight glinted off the charm she wore about her neck and she swore inventively as one of the creatures tore it from her.

Boromir took it from the Uruk, his gaze narrowing, then turned his eyes to her again. "Where did you get this?" he demanded. Tanathel remained silent, and Boromir's fist closed on her throat. He lifted her clear of the ground, exerting but a little pressure on her windpipe. "Where? Speak, if you do not wish to die."

"King Elessar entrusted it to me to deliver it to Lord Faramir," she choked out.

Boromir kept her dangling at arm's length, his own mind whirling. Tanathel saw something close to fear pass through his clear green eyes, but it was swiftly hidden. "And where is King Elessar now?" he barked, tightening his grip just a bit further.

Tanathel squirmed, unable to draw a decent breath, nor to get her hands from behind her to stop the deadly pressure. "He's --- dead," she finally managed to croak.

Boromir dropped her as though he had been burned. "Bring her," he ordered as he remounted his horse. Aragorn was dead? How could that be? But the proof was there to be seen. Never would Aragorn have let the Evenstar leave him, unless he were dead. "Lord Saruman will wish to hear the details."

Tanathel fought back a shudder at the mention of the wizard. But the die was cast, and she had no choice. She would see this through to the end.


	8. Realizations

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth, they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien.  Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic.

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making.  It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age.  Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read.  This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series.  And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day.  I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it.  Don't ever change.**

**Revolution and Retribution**

Chapter Eight: Realizations 

Eryn Lasgalen, formerly Mirkwood Forest 

****

Aragorn knelt beside the bathing pool, mind and body numb from the events of the last few days.  He was unutterably weary, in both flesh and spirit, and yet he could take no rest.  Each time his eyes slipped closed, he was assaulted by the images of his family, torn so violently from his life, indeed from life itself.

A tear slipped free and traced its way down his cheek, but he made no move to wipe it away.  Instead, he dipped his hands into the cool water and scooped it up, splashing his face with it, then slowly removed his leathers and settled into the cool, clear water, allowing some of the filth he had accumulated to be borne away.

He had loved his life as a Ranger, had actually toyed with the idea of never claiming the throne in Gondor.  But when the moment was upon him, he had not turned from his true destiny, instead embracing it and stepping forward to unite the Free Peoples of Middle Earth.

All that had been secondary to his most heartfelt desire.  He had tried, oh, how he had tried, to convince Arwen Undomiel, the Evenstar of the Elves, to take the ship across the seas to Valinor, there to forever remember their love, and not be touched by the cruel fate of mortality.  She had chosen instead to remain with him, gifting him with her heart, her body, her love, and forsaking the immortality of her people to bind herself to him.

Haunted by grief, he stepped from the bath, clothing himself in the garments supplied by Legolas.  The newly crowned King of the Greenwood had made certain Aragorn was comfortable in his accommodations, and then tactfully taken his leave to allow his friend time to freshen up and perhaps rest.  It had been a very thoughtful gesture on the Elf's part, but Aragorn expected to take no rest.  The sights that he had seen upon his flight from Minas Tirith were seared into his eyes and he saw them each and every time he felt himself relax. 

His people, some dead, some wounded, others in chains for daring to defend their King.  His family, his children, broken and lifeless, Arwen, his beautiful gift of love, bearing the sword strokes of the attackers with no pain, battling for revenge for her slain children, never seeing the blow from behind that had taken her so abruptly from his life. 

Each victim danced before him when he closed his eyes, demanding justice for their deaths.  Each one paraded before him, demanding an answer to the one riddle he could not solve.  Why?  Why had they died?  Why had this happened?

Such thoughts were not conducive to rest and he carefully blanked his mind, trying desperately to hold out the ghosts that threatened to reappear.  Carefully, slowly, he forced his weary body to relax, employing the techniques he had learned living among the Elves of Rivendell to loosen each muscle in turn.

Sleep still eluded him.  His body had relaxed, but his mind would not.  Arwen was everywhere, in the empty space beside him, in his thoughts, in his waking dreams.  Each time he reached for her and encountered empty air, the knife in his heart twisted further.  His grief was so strong, it was a physical blow.  It stole his breath from him, left him feeling bruised and bloodied, left him wishing for an end to the excruciating pain of loss and loneliness.

Never again would Arwen wake him with a gentle kiss, nor would he feel her light touch on his face.  Never again would he hear her beautiful voice, speaking soft words of love and devotion.  Never again would he hear her laughter.  It was too much to be borne.

His mind chased itself in circles.  How had he come to this fate?  He had waited so many years for the only one he could truly love, and she had been taken from him too quickly, she and the children she had borne him.  Fate had surely cursed him! 

To be held apart from her for so long, at the whims of her father.  To have had to achieve what was nearly impossible for one of the Eldar, and he a mere mortal!  And yet there had always been one more condition, one more task that must be done before Aragorn son of Arathorn would be allowed to wed the beautiful Arwen.  Always his foster father Elrond had found something lacking, that Arwen could not be his.

Then it had happened.  He had finally come into his own, faced his destiny, and claimed it.  The Ring had been found, and he had helped to destroy it, pitting a hopelessly undermanned company against the very Gates of Mordor to allow Frodo enough time to cast it into the fires of Mount Doom.  Finally he had completed the last of the tasks he had been set, and was granted the right to wed his love.

It had been bliss.  They had been so happy, and never more so than the night Arwen delivered their firstborn, a son.  He had been named Eldarion.

Unbidden, the images of the carnage rose again before his eyes and he almost cried out at the staggering pain of the realization.  Never again would he feel her touch, nor hear her voice, nor play with his children.  They were gone, beyond the veil, where he could not in all conscience follow.  His people still had need of him.

He drew his duty to him like a cloak and wrapped himself in it, but his grief was not to be dismissed so easily.  Instinctively, he grasped for the pendant Arwen had given him, the Evenstar that had lain against his breast for so long, and finding it missing was the final stab.  Hot tears scalded their way down his cheeks, though his weeping made no sound.  It had been necessary, he reassured himself, necessary to send the Evenstar with Tanathel, but the loss of it brought everything into the sharpest focus.  His life was in ruins, everyone he had loved gone from him.

No, not everyone.  He felt strong arms go around his shoulders and wept anew.  Legolas knew.  The Elf understood what the Man was feeling, far better than anyone realized.  In three thousand years, he had seen his share of grief, and for his comfort, Aragorn was grateful.

Legolas simply held his friend, the Man he had come to call brother, crooning soft Elvish reassurances as his friend wept himself into oblivion.  "Rest, my friend, my brother," he said softly as he gently covered the now exhausted Ranger and left him to his rest. 

Gimli stood waiting just outside the chamber, concern writ large in his eyes.  "Easy, laddie, you look as haunted as he did when ye brought him in," he said softly.  "Ye need to rest, if we're to go about helping to put him back where he belongs."

"Aye, Gimli, and I shall.  But know this."  Legolas drew himself to his full height, his gaze off somewhere only he could see.  "I will do whatever is necessary to avenge my brother.  Though it take every one of my people, though it cost me my life, I will see him back on the throne of Gondor where he belongs.  And I will see justice done to Saruman for this horror he has inflicted.  That is my vow."

Gimli merely nodded, understanding that the Elf had needed to put voice to his fury.  "And we Dwarves will help ye, laddie.  Aragorn has no shortage of friends to come to his aid.  And that is what will bring Saruman down."  He had carefully steered the Elf toward his own chamber, and now gave him a gentle push through the opening.  "Rest yerself, Elf, this won't be easy.  But nothing worth doing ever is."


	9. More Plans

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth, they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien.  Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic.

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making.  It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age.  Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read.  This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series.  And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day.  I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it.  Don't ever change.**

**Revolution and Retribution**

Chapter Nine: More Plans 

****

(Minas Tirith) 

Peregrine Took glanced around the carnage on the Pelennor Fields and shuddered.  What had become of this once peaceful bit of farmland?  Simple, he thought.  Civil war made no distinctions between soldier and farmer.  He had reason enough to know.

He made his way to the City gates, his heart in his throat.  If Saruman was behind the rebellion, he was in trouble.

He forced himself to relax and identified himself to the guards on duty and was passed through, and made his way steadily upward to the Citadel, his pony beginning to flag a bit toward the end of the long climb.  Pippin patted his neck encouragingly and promised a nice fat apple when he was stabled which proved to be all the incentive the beast needed.

He dismounted and handed the reins to the first stableboy he saw and forced his face to remain expressionless, though he was shocked at the condition the lad was in.  Filthy, clothed in rags… Denethor nor Aragorn neither one would have tolerated such.  Always they insisted on cleanliness in all things.  But what troubled Pippin the most was the sidelong glance the child had given him, full of fear and distrust.

He headed into the Citadel, his step purposeful and steady, though a great fear was building in his heart.  The City was so changed, seemed so… fearful was the only word he could find that came close to describing what the place now made him feel. 

He stepped into the Hall of Kings, his gaze on the throne, and snapped off a perfect salute.  "Peregrine Took, Guard of the Citadel, my lord," he explained quickly as he went to one knee in respect for the throne. 

Saruman remained seated, indolently waving a hand for the Halfling to rise.  Grima spoke as he neared the Hobbit, his voice harsh.  "You have been recalled by order of the new King of Gondor.  Will you uphold your oath, or will you be branded a traitor to your liege lord and hanged for treason?"

Carefully, carefully, Peregrine, he told himself quickly.  "I am sworn to the service of the King, and that service I will uphold," he said cautiously.  "What would my lord have of me?"

"I would have any information you possess on the whereabouts of Elessar Telcontar, the former ruler of this misbegotten land," Saruman intoned as he regarded the Hobbit gravely. 

"Sadly, my lord, I have none," Pippin answered slowly.  "I came from the Shire as soon as I was recalled, sire, and did not pause long enough to catch much gossip."

Saruman gazed so long and intently at the Halfling that Pippin was beginning to sweat under his armor when he finally spoke again.  "You are a Guard of the Citadel, and as such, you remain.  You know your duties, now carry them out."  He flicked a hand dismissively.

Pippin bowed low and withdrew, his heart in his throat.  How had he managed to pull one over on the old wizard?  Gandalf would have seen through him in a heartbeat.  Ah, but Saruman was not Gandalf, not by a long chalk!  But it seemed his charade had worked.  He had offered his service to the King, and Saruman had accepted it as his due.  Pippin, however, had not specified which King was due his service, and intended to do everything in his power to help Aragorn.  Being privy to Saruman's plans would be an enormous help.  Now he just had to figure a way to get the information to Aragorn and Legolas without being caught.


	10. Ten

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth, they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien.  Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic.

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making.  It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age.  Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read.  This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series.  And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day.  I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it.  Don't ever change.**

**Revolution and Retribution**

Chapter 10

(Rohan)

Merry pulled up his pony quickly as he heard the sentry's shout.  "Holdwine of the Mark, on an urgent errand to Eomer-king!" he answered, careful to hold himself steady.

The sentry called for him to advance and be recognized, and Merry walked his pony forward until again told to halt.  "Time's wasting," he shouted, his voice a bit more strident than usual.

"Sorry, Master Meriadoc, but His Highness has us checking everyone and they are turned away if unrecognized.  There's trouble in the south, bad trouble.  We're arming for war."

"That's why I'm here, Eoric.  I've an urgent message for Eomer-king, and I'll not speak it to anyone else.  So pass me through, and we'll talk more when things are a bit less unsettled."  Merry didn't even pause for permission, just kicked his pony forward into a gallop.  It was only a few more leagues to Edoras.

He pulled up in a hurry, though, when he heard Eoric's shout.  And he could have cursed himself for an idiot when he heard the gist of it.  Some warrior he was!  It was the logical outcome to any war plans; Eomer wouldn't stay at Edoras.  It was indefensible.  No, he would have made for Helm's Deep as soon as it was obvious war was brewing.

He waved a hand back toward Eoric in acknowledgement and adjusted his path, once more demanding as much speed as the pony could give him.  The road to the Deep was longer, and he needed to arrive there as soon as possible.

His mount was tiring, and he was exhausted, but he couldn't afford to slacken his pace.  Once the news had been circulated that Aragorn was dead, Eomer would march on Gondor.  It was simply a given.

He had to slow the pony, or he'd be on foot.  The poor creature was wheezing with the effort and he slowly drew back on the reins, hoping a short rest would mend the problem, but fearing he had broken its spirit.  "Only a ways farther, now," he crooned reassuringly.  "Only a ways further.  Come on now, walk for a few more minutes, then we need to run again."

Once the foam had subsided a bit, he spurred forward once more and the pony responded, surging ahead with renewed speed, covering the distance quickly and without faltering.

A long ride later, he finally saw the shape of the fortress in the dimming light.  He charged right up to the gates, throwing himself from the saddle as he neared and shouted a greeting to the guards at the gate.

He was quickly admitted and shown to Eomer's presence deep within the keep.  He knelt before the King, properly, and with all trace of his usual effervescence absent.  "My lord, I bring word from one who would seek your aid," he said simply.

Eomer simply stared at him for a moment, and Merry felt his heart sink.  Had he misjudged?  Was Eomer planning, not support for the High King, but to take Gondor while she lay divided?  Then he knew he had been right to come here, when he saw the naked relief on his friend's face.

Eomer raised Merry to his feet and gestured toward the bench.  "You've had a hard ride, it seems," he explained quietly.  "Tell me everything."

(Minas Tirith, in the Dungeons)

Faramir struggled futilely with the chains that bound him to the wall, cursing and spitting furiously, though hoarse.  His struggles were in vain, but still he tried.

Grima had dragged Eowyn into the room once more, leaving her a crumpled heap near Faramir's feet, and gone to stand by the wizard.  She was weeping, but from pain or fear, Faramir could not tell.

He ached to hold her, to reassure her, to comfort what hurts she had suffered under Grima's care, but he could not.  He had no voice even to speak, for the lining of his throat had been inflamed by the screams the wizard had forced from him.  He could not even touch her with a toe, and the realization struck him almost a physical blow.

Slowly, Eowyn's head came up, and she caught Faramir's eyes with her own.  He read the fury there and thanked the Valar that it was not directed at him.  Her hatred of the Worm was common knowledge, but seemed to have risen to new heights. 

"Courage, my lord," she said softly as she fought to regain her feet, though her limbs bore witness to a horrible beating.  She laid a gentle hand against his face, her face grim.  "Revenge will be ours, when Elessar returns.  Have courage.  That day will come, and perhaps sooner than anyone realizes."

She turned and glared at the Worm, who shrank behind Saruman's robes.  "You have no part of me, snake," she spat ruthlessly, hatred in every syllable.  "You may beat me, torture me, take me but you have no part of me.  You never shall."

Her words rang in the sudden silence until Saruman flicked a hand in her direction.  Suddenly she was struck dumb and frozen to the spot.

"You speak of courage, woman, and know not of what you speak.  Courage to endure until the King is returned.  And I say to you now, the King shall never return.  Isildur's Heir has fallen." 

He held out his hand to show what it held and Eowyn began to weep, great, long sobs of grief.  Faramir felt tears on his own face and cared not that he wept in such company.

They had seen the Evenstar.  Their King had indeed fallen.  There was no one to save Gondor now.

(Minas Tirith, another part of the Dungeons)

Tanathel could feel very little, and what parts of her she could feel ached abominably.  The wizard had been most interested in the tale she had to tell, and had allowed no respite from the pain until he had been certain of the truth of her words. 

She raised her head wearily from the floor when she heard the scrape of a boot heel outside the door, but her body simply wouldn't listen to her demands for movement.

The wizard had not harmed her, not physically.  But the agony he had poured forth from his spells had been worse than any pain she had ever known, bar none.  She had no strength left to resist whatever her visitor might wish to do to her.

The door opened and the boots came closer.  She could not see anything higher, for her head had fallen back to the floor and she lacked the strength to lift it again. 

They were nice boots, she thought idly.  Polished to a high shine, crafted from the finest leather.  Sternly she tried to bring her thoughts into focus, but they would not listen.  Then the boots moved around where she could not follow them with her eyes and she began to be afraid.  Was the wizard ready for her again?  Had he found the lie in her words?

Strong arms came around her and lifted her to a seated position, then allowed her to recline back against a strong body.  A hand held a cup to her lips, and a man's voice urged her to drink.

She could not fight, could not even move on her own so she did as he demanded, finishing the cup.  Water had never tasted so blessed to her. 

"Good.  I've some broth for you, when you're sure you can hold it down," he explained patiently, and she identified the voice.  Boromir.  But if he was serving Saruman, why was he helping her, showing her kindness?  It made no sense!  Her head was reeling again.

Boromir laid her gently on a rough pallet near the wall.  She had been unable to reach it when she was brought in; the pain had still been flaring intensely and all she had wanted was to curl in around herself and die.  Then he took a kerchief from his robes and gently wiped her face with it.

"Why?" she finally was able to ask.  "You have betrayed your King, you have sided with Saruman.  You are a traitor to your very blood, yet you show me kindness.  Why?"

Boromir held a finger to her lips as steps sounded in the corridor outside, only removing it when the Orc had passed.  "Never accept what your eyes tell you on faith," he murmured.  "Have some faith in the House of Hurin, woman.  I serve Saruman not from choice, and I hold no loyalty to him.  My loyalty is to Isildur's Heir, to Aragorn.  And I will find a way to turn this mockery of life to Gondor's advantage."

Tanathel simply couldn't process his words into something rational.  She knew she was gaping like a fool, and certainly in a fashion unworthy of a Ranger, but she couldn't help it.  This revelation from him, it rang true, but she couldn't trust it on faith.  At least in that respect he was correct.

She felt her mind begin to clear.  If this truly was Boromir… She had to know.  He could be a magical construct of Saruman's, neither truly living nor dead, or someone bewitched to appear as Boromir.  She had to know the truth.

Her gut feeling was that he was as he said, but she wouldn't believe it without proof.  The Boromir she had heard so much of would never have allied himself with Saruman, or Orcs, let alone both.  His one true love was the White City, and he would do anything to protect her.  This couldn't be the Captain-General.

"How can I trust you?" she snapped, keeping her voice low.  "You brought me to Saruman, you let him torture me until he was certain I spoke the truth.  You took the Evenstar from me, when it had been entrusted to my keeping upon the King's death.  You have betrayed everything that Boromir would hold dear, and you expect me to believe you are he?  Never!"

She sat up and scooted as far away from him as the pallet would allow, and he made no move to follow.  "What you say is true," he said finally.  "It must seem the most bitter betrayal to you.  But I swear to you, on my honor as Captain-General of Gondor's armies, as Boromir of the House of Hurin, as one of the Fellowship, that I am Boromir of Gondor, and that my service to Saruman is not of my making.  I am compelled by his magic to follow his orders, though my heart bleeds at the treachery I am forced to commit.  And I can find no way to break his unholy enchantment."

Tanathel nodded.  "I will help you to find the way, if you allow me to escape," she urged softly.  His words, the passion he spoke them with, rang true to what she knew of the dashing Captain.  She believed him.  But her strength was returning, and with it, her desire to do what was necessary to put her King back where he belonged.

He made no answer, merely stared toward the door, and Tanathel followed his gaze.  She saw nothing of interest and wondered at his rigid posture.  But ever the Ranger, she moved swiftly to take advantage of his inattention.

He had come to her unarmed, so there was nothing for her to use against him.  But a well-placed punch with all her weight behind it served her purpose and sent him to the floor, stunned.  Not unconscious, she couldn't render him senseless with just the one blow.  But she was up and moving, throwing herself out the door and slamming it behind her before he could get to his feet.

First things first, she thought on the fly as she ducked into a nearby alcove.  It would hide her long enough for a few minor but necessary alterations to her appearance.  A little ash from one of the torches would conceal her face and hands, and the darkness of her clothing would hide the rest of her adequately.  Then she scurried further into the shadows to begin putting Aragorn's plans into motion.


	11. Eleven

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth; they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien.  Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic.

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making.  It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age.  Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read.  This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series.  And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day.  I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it.  Don't ever change.**

**Revolution and Retribution**

Chapter Eleven

(Minas Tirith Dungeons)

Pippin glanced around the corner to make certain no one was about and then stepped out into the corridor. 

The torches had burned low, and that meant no one would be around unless they were the guards on duty.  It was close to dawn.

He crept nearer to the cell door and peered inside.  "Faramir," he whispered.  "Faramir, can you hear me?" 

The Steward raised his eyes and Pippin winced at the bruising around his friend's face.  No indignity had been spared, it seemed, in Saruman's quest for the location of the King. 

Faramir's eyes widened and he shook his head, giving a meaningful glance into the corner.  Pippin followed his gaze, to find a trio of Orcs at a table nearby.  They were arguing over the cooking pot in the center of the table, and Pippin swallowed hard.  He did not want to know what was in it.

Slowly, carefully, he released the lock on the cell.  He eased the door open slightly and slipped inside, as quietly as only a Hobbit could move, and crept closer to the Steward.  "I've come to help you," he murmured.  "If I get you free, can you walk?  We have to get you out of here."

Faramir nodded, his eyes still on the Orcs.  They had fallen to their meal with gusto, and even now were starting to feel the effects of the wine that had been so thoughtfully provided to them.  One by one, their heads went to the table, and shortly the only indication of their presence was the loud snoring from their direction. 

Pippin made short work of the locks on Faramir's manacles, and slipped himself next to the Steward for support as the Man sagged.  "Easy, now, it's only a few steps to the door," he encouraged.  "After that, a few more short steps to the outside, if I remember the tunnels right."

"You do, Pippin, and many thanks.  But first, we must find Eowyn."  Faramir straightened, holding in a hiss of pain as the welts on his back tightened agonizingly.  "I will not leave without her."

"And I wouldn't ask you to.  Ready?  A few steps, then."  Pippin led him into the corridor and down a flight of steps, where he had cached Faramir's fighting leathers.  He waited only until the Man had finished dressing before taking him by the arm.  "Come on, I know where the Worm sleeps.  He'll have taken her there."

(Eryn Lasgalen)

The horses were ready.  Aragorn mounted Brego, his thoughts on what he might find when he arrived at Edoras. 

Legolas stepped near and laid his hand on Aragorn's leg.  "The scouts have returned.  Eomer has moved his people to Helm's Deep, in preparation for war.  Merry has made it there safely and even now has laid out our plan for Eomer.  If we make for the Gap of Rohan, and travel only in darkness, we should come safely to our friend and ally."

"Then let us go!  I grow tired of skulking in the shadows, when my rightful place is with my people!"  To say that Aragorn was frustrated would be an understatement.  He burned with the knowledge that his people suffered, and his heart was sore not just with the loss of his family, but the inescapable fact that Faramir would have been taken or killed quickly.  Saruman would leave no stone unturned to root out any pockets of possible rebellion. 

He was haunted by his decisions.  Tanathel had accepted her mission without hesitation, but he still felt strongly about what he had asked of the brash young Ranger from Ithilien.  She had taken the Evenstar, allowing herself to be captured by the forces hunting him, in order to persuade Saruman that Aragorn was indeed dead.  She had arranged their shared campsite on Amon Sul to give evidence of their brief tenancy, and had constructed a cairn close by to reinforce the idea that the king had fallen. 

"My people will follow, a few at a time," Legolas was saying, and Aragorn turned his attention back to the Elven King.  "Most of the Elves have left Middle Earth, it is true.  I would have our true numbers hidden, in order to deceive Saruman.  We are still far more than anyone realizes."  Legolas mounted quickly and drew Gimli up to ride behind him.  The two had been inseparable since the Ring War, drawn closer together and beyond all the tests of friendship, they were closer than most brothers.  For Legolas to leave Gimli behind for any reason was unthinkable.

Aragorn nodded, his mind still on events in Minas Tirith.  Tanathel was most likely already dead, but he would see she lived on in the hearts of Men, for she was valiant and honorable.  And if by some miracle she survived these evil times, she would be given high honors, the highest she would accept. 

Pippin haunted him as well.  The Hobbit had emerged unscathed from worse scrapes than this, he knew, but he had never had to outsmart a wizard on his own.  Aragorn feared that he also had fallen.

Enough recriminations, he told himself firmly as he followed Legolas' lead.  Time enough for guilt later.  Now, he had his people to save.

(Helm's Deep)

Eomer checked over the defensive line once more.  The walls were manned, and the spacing was perfect.  Each Archer held his position as though rooted to the spot, and each Pikeman filled in the gaps accordingly.

There was nothing more to be done now.  He returned to the Hall, to seek out Merry, and found him before the fire.  He made to rise and Eomer gestured him to remain as he was.  "It is a foul day out there.  You might as well stay warm while you can."  A small smile gave lie to the stern tone.  "In truth, were I not King, I would be by your side and let someone else order the defenses."

"Ah, but you are king, and you wear it well, my lord."  Merry let just a bit of his natural good humor escape.  "Especially for one so reluctant to bear the mantle of royalty."

"I thank whatever gods might listen that I am not the High King," came Eomer's reply.  He seemed utterly unconcerned with the familiarity the hobbit had shown him, indeed, he welcomed it.  "Torn from my home at the point of a sword, losing my family in such circumstances, hunted like a beast… it staggers the mind how Aragorn could remain sane under such conditions."

Merry drew himself forward and peered into the fire, his thoughts on his friends who still journeyed far from home.  "He is sane, though far from whole in spirit," he answered finally.  "How could he be?  Arwen was his one love, the one who meant the world to him.  He bore such heavy burdens, and still thought himself unworthy of her.  He worshipped her, and she has fallen.  It is a hard blow to him."  He shook off the melancholy that threatened.  "Now, with the defenses ordered, my lord," and he threw a cheeky grin at his liege lord, "and wonderfully ordered they are, we wait.  Aragorn is coming.  And he won't be alone."

(Minas Tirith, the Hall of Kings)

Saruman glowered at his Captain.  "How could you allow this to happen?" he asked softly, his voice soothing and melodic.  Boromir fought its pull with all his will.  "She must be re-taken.  Spare no effort in finding her, and when you do, kill her.  She cannot be allowed to use herself as a rallying point for rebellion."  The wizard took a delicate sip from the wineglass he held.

"Of course, my lord," Boromir answered, tight-lipped with fury.  How dare the Istari take him to task?  He was not a servant, nor a mercenary captain.  He served for no other reason than he had no choice.  The spells used to return him from death had bound him tightly to the wizard, so tightly there seemed no escape.  "But what point is there in rebellion?  Aragorn is dead, the King has fallen.  There are none who could oppose you."

Saruman raised an eyebrow.  "You think not?  There is still that upstart horseman in Rohan, and the Elves who remain upon Arda.  They will not countenance my taking lordship here, and must be taught manners.  I intend to humble them all.  And with the High King in his tomb, it shall be an easy task."

Boromir nodded curtly and did not wait to be dismissed.  He strode from the chamber, his boots all but flashing sparks from the flagstones from his anger.  Faramir.  He must find Faramir, and he would start in the obvious place.  The dungeons.

He clenched his teeth over a spate of vile barracks curses when he found the Orcs sleeping off the wine.  His Faramir had been here, all right.  The signs were there, plain to be seen.  Much more telling of the escape, however, were the keys left in the locks and the bare footprints in the dust upon the stone floor.  Hobbit footprints.

Boromir felt his heart lighten.  It could as easily be Frodo or Sam, or even Merry, but something in his spirit insisted they belonged to Pippin. 

If that irrepressible mischief-maker was here, then all was not lost.  But how to help them?  It must be done cautiously, for if the wizard sensed betrayal, it would cost him what passed for his life.  And he had no intention of embracing the darkness once more.

(Just outside the White City)

Tanathel shivered on the Pelennor, her cloak no match for the chill of the night.  She lurked about the trees, waiting for a sign that the Halfling Pippin had been able to free Faramir. 

There were few trees to shelter behind, and the wind was bitter cold.  Autumn, it seemed, had been left far behind, and winter was closing her fist about the land.  She took a deep breath and cursed softly, ever wary of being discovered.  There was snow on that wind, and that would make the whole plan difficult to carry out.

Faramir would incite those still loyal to Aragorn to rally round, and she was to assist all she could.  She held herself ready, near the exit to the tunnels, to join the Halfling and the Steward when they emerged.  She had liberated sword and bow from the Armory, and though her fingers keenly felt the chill, she would be able to defend them should the need arise.

It could take hours, she reminded herself.  She needed to be under cover before the sun rose, and so she found a patch of scrubby brush to conceal herself in, and waited.


	12. Twelve

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth; they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien.  Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic.

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making.  It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age.  Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read.  This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series.  And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day.  I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it.  Don't ever change.**

**Revolution and Retribution**

Chapter Twelve

(Minas Tirith)

Pippin led Faramir through the tunnels to the rooms Grima had claimed for his own, taking care not to move faster than the Steward was able.  Faramir was in dire shape, but he held it well, and the only indication of his discomfort was the occasional reluctant hiss of pain.

"Wait here," Faramir ordered softly as they emerged from the darkness of the tunnels.  "I will send Eowyn to you.  Take her to safety and I will follow as soon as I have dealt with the Worm."

"No, sir," Pippin fired back quickly as he placed a restraining hand on the Steward's arm.  "I know you want to avenge yourself --- and Eowyn --- but this isn't the time.  You know that, if you'll think."

"I will not allow him to live, not after what he has done."  Faramir's tone was crisp, but it was clear he'd hear no argument.  His sword was in hand, his face was set.  It was more frightening to Pippin to see the normally gentle Hurin so controlled than if he had been raging violently.  The sheer amount of hatred Faramir was holding at bay shocked the Halfling, and he took a half step back before he could stop himself. 

Pippin held his tongue.  Nothing he could say would sway the Steward, it was obvious.  The least he could do was keep Eowyn safe, as had been requested.  "All right, then.  We go in together and get her out."

Faramir nodded.  "There are no guards here," he remarked as he gave the area a cautious once-over.  "Why is that?  Surely the Worm is not so secure as to forgo his protection, especially in the company of my wife."  A tiny smile, not at all pleasant, graced his features for a split second.  "Eowyn is nothing if not determined.  She will fight him until there is no life left within her."

The sound of Eowyn's voice raised in fury was enough to lend speed to their venture.  Faramir burst through the door Pippin had barely reached, sword raised to deliver a killing blow, only to be hastily redirected as Eowyn ducked under his arm to head for the hallway beyond.  Pippin dove to one side to avoid the fleeing woman and rolled, coming up with his own blade bared and stepped between Eowyn and the carnage within the apartment.

The skirmish had quickly escalated into a full-scale war, for Grima had not been unarmed when Eowyn had come barreling through the door.  Parry, thrust, thrust, parry, the blades flashed quickly, creating a quicksilver blur. 

It was evident that Grima had not allowed his training to lapse, even after having given his allegiance to Saruman.  He had been one of the Rohirrim once, and as such had more than just a passing acquaintance with a blade.  Faramir, however, had the benefit of far more experience in dueling. 

Relentlessly, he pressed his attack, forcing Grima back until there was no further retreat.  The cornered man was quickly disarmed, and Faramir grasped him by the throat, blade positioned for a killing thrust. 

"Wait!" Grima screamed, sweat oozing from every pore.  "If you kill me, you'll never know what happened to your brother!"

Faramir pushed the tip of the sword just a bit closer, now holding Grima to the wall with just the blade.  The condemned man squealed as the steel bit through his tunic to press solidly against flesh.  "I already know what happened to Boromir, Worm," Faramir snarled, his face contorted with fury.  "He fell at Amon Hen, defending the Hobbits.  And you are about to die like the mangy cur you are."

Grima's expression quickly changed from terrified to crafty.  "Then you do not know!  My master has not told you!"  Quickly he sought to press his advantage, while Pippin and Eowyn moved closer.  Pippin had closed the door and barred it against possible reinforcements, and had given Eowyn a purloined bed sheet to cover the scanty nightdress she wore. 

Eowyn placed a restraining hand on Faramir's arm.  "Let him speak," she urged, her voice cold.  "He may yet have something useful to say.  Then you can kill him."  She turned away then, to rummage through the chests in the room for something she might use as a weapon, and for something a bit more appropriate to wear.

"Speak," the Steward demanded. 

Grima looked each way, perspiring heavily.  "Boromir is no longer with his ancestors," he began slowly, venom dripping from every word.  "Lord Saruman has returned him to his flesh.  He has seen the error of following your false King, and serves the White Hand."  He would have added more, but Faramir put more pressure on the blade and Grima fell silent, seeing his death in the Steward's eyes.

Faramir suddenly dropped the blade, again tightening his fingers around his victim's throat.  "Lies," he snarled, his face mere inches from Grima's.  "Even Saruman cannot restore the dead."

He dragged the reluctant Grima from the room, out onto the balcony.  "Pray, Worm," he hissed as he pushed the man against the railing.  "I would have shown you mercy, had you not harmed my wife.  For that, and that alone, you die."  He kept pushing until Grima was clawing at his wrist for purchase.

"No, please!"  Grima was panic-stricken.  "I swear to you, it is the truth!  Look below, you have only to use your eyes, look!"

Faramir looked down, despite himself, and caught his breath.  His fingers slackened against Grima's throat, and the Worm tore free and scurried toward the door, only to find the Hobbit and Eowyn guarding against his escape.  His sword was in Eowyn's hand, and her expression promised his death if he attempted to reach the door.

Faramir was thunderstruck.  How could that be?  It wasn't possible!  Saruman could never have had such power!  But from the moment the man's face turned upward, he knew. 

The Worm had spoken the truth.  Boromir lived!

"There will be a reckoning, Worm," Faramir hissed as he stepped around the foul creature.  "For now, take yourself somewhere far from here, for if Saruman learns you allowed us to escape, his wrath would rival mine.  I would not wish such a death as the wizard would provide on the foulest creature on Arda."

He gestured to the others and they left the apartments, their steps quick and furtive.  Soon, they were near the stables and Faramir signaled them to halt.  "Eowyn, you must ride for Rohan and your brother.  Pippin's pony would be too slow, and I must see to Boromir.  I must know if he truly serves the wizard, or is enchanted.  I must know if it is truly Boromir."  In his heart, he already knew, though he could not credit it.  "If Eomer is unaware of the King's death, you must break it to him.  But you must go."

"But he's not dead!"

Pippin's voice was of necessity quite soft, but there was no mistaking the words.  "He's not dead, Faramir, he only wants Saruman to think so," he explained quickly.  "He sent the Evenstar with Tanathel, just so Saruman would believe he was dead.  Tanathel let herself be captured so he'd find it.  He's on his way to Rohan, and Tanathel is supposed to be waiting for us on the Pelennor, if she was able to escape."

Eowyn knelt to embrace the Hobbit.  "Such news is gladly heard, my friend," she said softly.  "Faramir, I will not only carry news of our King to my brother, I will tell him of Boromir as well.  Now go, rendezvous with your Ranger, and I will be off."  She rose and kissed him gently, then turned toward the stables.  A scant few moments later, she spurred out of the courtyard, headed down the streets toward the gate.

The smaller side gate opened as she reached it, just as Orcs began pouring out of the quarters to intercept.  Arrows pierced the dawn, and the first wave of them fell back dead, allowing her to escape toward Rohan.

"Ride swiftly, my lady," Tanathel whispered as she ducked inside the gate, finding cover behind the guardhouse.  She was soon joined by Faramir and Pippin.  "Come, I've a safe place nearby where we can plan."


	13. Thirteen

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth; they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic.

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**A/N #2: Thank you so much to everyone who has kept up with this story. I am gratified that y'all enjoy it so much! And many thanks for those who wrote asking me to continue. Sorry it took so long to update! More chapters should be coming soon, now. Enjoy!**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.**

**Revolution and Retribution**

Chapter Thirteen

(Helm's Deep)

Eomer paced the Hall, his mind in turmoil. Surely he had cause enough to aid Aragorn. If nothing else, there was the Oath of Eorl to be upheld, but was it enough any longer? He would be committing his people to death, in a battle that could not be won. Saruman had shown himself, and the wizard was no weak foe.

Eowyn had arrived with the dawn, two days ago. The Rohirrim had been mustered, anyone who could wield a sword, man or woman, had been pressed into service. Healers stood by to assist. But would any of this be enough to topple the wizard?

Aragorn had yet to arrive, which was another concern. If he had set out from Mirkwood, he should have been to the Deep two days past.

He couldn't send a search party. It would raise too much suspicion, if the wrong person were watching. Saruman had many ways of keeping track of his enemies.

Eowyn's tale was no cause for celebration, either. Boromir back from the dead, Faramir weakened by torture, yet free to coordinate a resistance effort from inside. Pippin, there to help him, such as the Hobbit could.

He shook his head at that. Those Halflings had proven themselves many times over. Their reach might be less but their hearts were as large or larger. Neither of them lacked courage.

Thinking of the Halflings seemed to make them appear, and he turned just as Merry made his way toward the throne. "My lord, there are riders approaching," he remarked quickly. "They bear no banner that I can see, much less that of the Greenwood. Your orders?"

Eomer bit down on the grin that threatened. The little Hobbit acted so much the soldier, it was hard to remember he was not one of the Rohirrim. "My orders, Master Holdwine, are for you to attend Gamling and see to the provisioning of the men. Freothain, take your eored and investigate these riders. They may only be crossing our lands, but we'll take no chances. And find out how they crossed our borders unchallenged."

Merry bowed his acknowledgement and departed, and Eowyn stepped closer to lay a hand on Eomer's shoulder. "Be at ease, brother. Aragorn will come. And Faramir even now is rallying the people of Minas Tirith."

Eomer turned and touched Eowyn lightly on the cheek, his eyes holding the only sign that he was not completely in control of his feelings. "I truly hope you are right, Eowyn, but I must think of my people. How can I commit them to a battle that cannot be won? I will be sending them to their deaths."

"Theoden faltered as well, but he did the right thing when duty called. You will as well." Eowyn hugged him tightly and then stepped away to gaze into his face. "The Oath of Eorl demands it, as does your loyalty and friendship with Aragorn. And do not so quickly count all as lost." She gave his arm a squeeze. "There is still time."

"Eomer-King!" Merry stumbled back into the hall, half-running. "There's a rider in from the Southern border, and he's got some bad news."

Gamling strode into the Hall, his grip tight on the arm of a young man. He hastened the lad to his King, dropping to one knee. "My lord, you should hear what this lad has to say."

Eomer raised the youth to his feet, favoring him with a kind expression. "What is your name, boy?" he asked quietly, his voice firm.

"I am called Marthelin, sir, and I come from Gondor." That in itself made Eomer sit up and take notice. "I bring a message from Peregrin Took, to be given to your ears only." Uneasily, the boy took in the crowd in the room, but then he straightened and assumed the most intimidating expression he could.

"Marthelin, you may speak freely. These are my most trusted people, I have no secrets from them." Eomer's tone brooked no argument. "What is this message?"

The boy glanced around once more, then began to speak as though in a trance. "From Peregrine Took, Guard of the Citadel of Gondor, servant of the True King, greetings. Eomer, blast it, there's no more time!"

Marthelin's voice had quite the fair approximation of Pippin's, indeed, Eomer fought the urge to check if the cheeky Halfing was hidden somewhere nearby. The lad continued, unconscious of the disquiet he was inflicting on the others. "The Uruks are marching on Edoras. Boromir's alive, and we'll explain that when you get here. I've sent Marthelin to you because he's the only one I can trust not to alter my message. Faramir suggested him. But you need to gather your forces and head for Minas Tirith by the quickest road. Faramir, Tanathel and I can't hold them off forever, and there aren't many people left willing to revolt. The wizard has been most efficient in quelling their spirits. I'm not sure anything but the reappearance of the True King would stir them.

"Send Marthelin back to me with your answer. He'll deliver it quickly, and accurately. We need the help now, Eomer, we can't wait any longer."

Marthelin started to sag as his eyes resumed their normal focus. "Did I do it right?" he whispered as he landed on the bench Merry hastily slid into place.

Eowyn pressed a goblet into the boy's hand, urging him to drink. "Twill settle your stomach, lad, and then we will talk more."

"You did exactly right, Marthelin of Gondor," Eomer said slowly. "Take this message to Master Took: The King of Rohan acknowledges your message, and will provide aid as requested. Look to our coming in six days ---"

"And do not despair, for you are no longer alone. The Elves of Eryn Lasgalen and the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain also come to your aid." Aragorn's voice cut through the Hall like a knife through butter and Eomer spun to face his friend, the High King of Gondor.

Aragorn clasped his forearm in greeting, his face full of sorrow. "Tis not the meeting of friends I had envisioned," he said quietly. "There is no time for feasting and celebrating. The situation has grown grim indeed, if Pippin is calling for aid."

"He'd not likely think he could take on the wizard himself, now, would he?" Merry piped up from behind them. "Nor Faramir either. They've both got more sense than that. In Pip's case, not much, but he's not foolish enough to take on Saruman unaided."

"I knew of Boromir's return," Eomer said slowly. "Eowyn carried word to me on her escape from Minas Tirith. I could scarcely credit it."

"Be that as it may, Eomer, we must not delay further. We ride for Minas Tirith with the dawn."

(Minas Tirith)

"Pippin, for the hundredth time, will you be careful?" Tanathel chided the Hobbit as he crept ahead of her in the tunnels. "If anyone sees the torchlight---"

"They'll not give it a thought, trust me!" Pip fired back smoothly. Quickly he smothered the torch and turned to face her, his face a pale blur in the darkness. "Better? We've no time! Faramir wants the beacons lit, and he wants it done yesterday. He's hoping it might spark some hope in these people. They've lost all will to live, it seems."

"Probably from Saruman's spells," the Ranger growled as she again misstepped in the shadows. She put out a hand to steady herself, only to pull it back quickly when she touched something other than the smooth stone of the tunnel.

She drew breath to warn the Halfling, but a strong hand clamped over her mouth and a dagger's point made itself felt at her throat. "Not a sound, Tanathel, if you'd like to see the dawn," Boromir's voice whispered in her ear. "Tell the hobbit to go ahead. Let him light the beacons. You and I have business elsewhere."

She did as he bade her, knowing that even Pippin's keen eyes would not perceive the Man at her back. He had dressed for the occasion, solid black, and lampblack on his face. His cloak covered his golden hair. It was as if a great shadow had taken physical form and held her in its grasp.

Pippin gave her a piercing look, but scurried ahead to carry out his orders. Tanathel waited only until she was certain he was out of earshot and stamped down hard on the foot behind her, then followed it up with an elbow to his ribs. She dropped when his hold loosened and rolled away, coming up with blade in hand and fire in her eye.

"Traitor!" she spat. "You swore yourself to King Elessar before your death, and yet now, you serve Saruman? It would seem your oath means nothing to you." Slowly she circled, testing his sight in the dark, searching for the opening that would mean the difference between victory and death. "By the Valar, Boromir, why?"

"Because the wizard holds my very life," he answered, slowly lowering his own weapon. "I cannot work directly against him. It causes such agonies as you have only dreamed of. But I wish to help Aragorn. I know he is not dead."

"He is dead, Boromir. You saw the Evenstar, you know he would not allow it to leave him while he yet lived." Tanathel was stalling for time. Faramir would be looking for them soon, and he must not meet his brother at sword's point. "Of all people, you should realize that. I buried him myself, in the cairn on Amon Sul."

"Yes, the cairn. Clever child. Did you think that would convince me?" Boromir's voice changed, suddenly, and his weapon flicked out, biting deeply into her forearm. "Of course it would, were I the Boromir you remember." His words took on a snarling note as his blade continued to harass her. She was hard pressed to keep him from skewering her outright, and was bleeding from several deep cuts before he backed off again. "You little fool, I searched your cairn. There was nothing inside. He lives. Tell me where."

Tanathel kept her back to the wall in order to keep him in her sight and have at least one direction she could not be attacked from. "I cannot tell you what I do not know," she replied as she blocked yet another strike. She could see the sweat beading his skin. What was happening? Boromir was a consummate swordsman, he should have had her disarmed in the first minute of their duel. Why hadn't he? Was he toying with her, or was it something else?

Her left arm hung uselessly at her side, blood dripping to the flagstones under her feet, when she saw what might be the first chink in his attack. It was as though he were not himself. She almost cried out at the sudden clarity.

He was not himself! His words, his stance, they were his, yet not his. The sweat beaded on his brow spoke of some internal struggle. She watched as his blade rose for the final strike, watched as he waged war with himself, watched as the blade came whistling down at her ---

--- only to lodge itself in the stone beside her. "Go," he urged, his voice, his words conveying urgency. "Run. I cannot fight him for long." His face reflected sheer agony, and instinctively, she started forward. He shoved her back with one hand and glared at her through his pain. "Go!"

Tanathel ran.


	14. Fourteen

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth; they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic.

Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.

Author's note #2: In this chapter I make mention of Ancir, and I bless Evendim for allowing me to borrow him, if only briefly. Also, the chapter begins just a short time before Chapter 13 ends, so the timing is tricky. You'll be okay though. J

Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.

Revolution and Retribution

Chapter Fourteen

(Minas Tirith)

"You are a fool, Saruman." The words rang in the wizard's head and Saruman cursed long and violently, if silently. "You should have killed them all. They could not have stood against you. You nearly destroyed the woman whilst she was still in your grasp. To have allowed her to escape is contemptible."

"Ah, but it is part of my plan, Master," he tried to explain. "If the woman is free, she will lead us directly to the rebels, and to the Dunedain. I allowed her to believe she had swayed me with her tale, but I am aware that he yet lives. And he is allied with the Elves, and the Horsemen in Rohan. The Dwarves, too, flock to his banner. He must be crushed, and by allowing her to believe she is free, she will lead us to them."

"You are a fool." The voice added depth and rage to the words this time, causing the wizard to squint slightly. "You have sent the Orcs to Edoras, when the quarry lies within Helm's Deep. And your revival of Boromir--- that is beyond comprehension."

"Ah, but with him under my control, the rebellion shall fail. He is Gondor, as he always was. He will rule these people under my power with an iron fist, and none shall escape his notice. He will be the downfall of that wretched Dunedain."

The voice spoke again, its very volume and fury gaining with each word. "Then, since you believe it will be so, so let it be!" it cried, and Saruman felt a wrenching pain within himself, then a sense of falling, as though he were no longer on the ground. Then, with a bump, he felt himself settle back into solid reality. He opened his eyes…

… and took control of the situation. He baited the woman, using Boromir's innate skill with a blade to whittle away her defenses, leaving her vulnerable to his blade, and brought the sword down in a sweeping arc.

"NO!" he heard Boromir's voice, and the stroke, which should have killed her, went crooked. While he fought to regain the blade from the stone, he heard the Man order her to run, and growled unintelligibly, moving the muscles of which he had control even more frantically. But it was too late, she had taken her Captain-General's advice, and she was sprinting out of the tunnels, leaving him far behind.

"You will pay for that, cretin," he heard himself snarl with Boromir's voice. "I own you, Boromir, and you would do well to remember it."

"You own no part of me, you misbegotten spawn of a Balrog, and I will fight you every step of the way." Boromir was no less determined than the wizard, and it showed. "My father oft accused me of being mulish, and it was well earned. You shall learn that, if you've not done so already." Boromir was keeping a tight rein over his unwanted 'guest's' presence now, and began to stride out of the tunnels himself. "You see? You cannot win. To borrow a phrase from your favorite old friend, 'hope is kindled.'"

Boromir turned his eyes toward the sky, where the beacon of Amon Din burned brightly against the lightening dawn. "The Halfling has done as he was bidden by the Lord Steward of Gondor. The beacons will bring aid, aye, all who see them will see there is hope left in the world of Men. And Aragorn will return to the throne you have so callously booted him off of."

"How so, when he is dead? You saw the Evenstar, Boromir. He would not allow it to leave him, save at his death."

"I also saw knowledge in that Ranger's eyes, lord bastard, knowledge that hope lives. If it does, then so does Aragorn. That's a given. And even were he dead and buried, his people are loyal to HIM, not some slack-jawed vainglorious dandy whose best part dribbled down his mother's thigh at his conception."

Saruman saw fit not to answer him, and Boromir counted it a minor victory. Not that the Istari was even human, but somehow it helped to counter his cultured arguments with crudity. But barracks behavior wasn't going to get him out of this, nor was it going to help Aragorn.

He turned on his heel and headed back into the tunnels. Faramir would have advice, if he could only hold the wizard down long enough to find his brother…

(Minas Tirith, the stables)

"Tanathel should be here right quick, she stayed in the tunnels, I think she saw something," Pippin blurted as he entered the smallest tack room, only to go rigid at the sight before him.

Faramir was there, just as they had arranged, but he was not alone. Several other men rose at his entrance, all of them glowering until they recognized the small figure. "Cor, you almost got spitted, young master Perian," the first one growled as he reseated himself.

"Easy, Ancir. If I'd been one of the enemy, you'd be dead. I'm just a Hobbit with a report of a mission completed." Pippin bowed low to Faramir and gave him a cheeky grin. "The beacons are lit, which should bring Eomer at the gallop."

"We can only hope," Faramir agreed, his mind obviously somewhere else, and it wasn't hard for the Hobbit to guess where.

"Eowyn is safe, Faramir," he reassured the Steward with a pat on the shoulder. "If she wasn't, you'd know by now. Things are moving quickly, too quickly now for Saruman to stop this. Everything will be to rights soon."

"If that bastard Saruman doesn't anticipate us and kill us all," one of the other men muttered. Faramir rounded on him, his eyes flashing.

"We will not die like the vermin he thinks us!" he stormed, though his voice was low, it was evident he was controlling his fury by sheer will. "We will be ready, though there are few of us. We will be ready when Eomer-King appears on the Pelennor. We only wait for Tanathel to depart for Henneth Annun. He will not find us there."

"He will, since he has taken Boromir." Tanathel's voice from the doorway was faint, but not weak. Her left arm hung limply at her side, and there was a rill of blood dripping from her fingers to the floor. "Saruman controls him, though not completely. I would be dead if he had full control. Boromir fights him."

"Sit down before you fall down, you bloody great idjit!" Pippin grumbled as he rummaged through the tack boxes in search of bandages. "You can tell us all about it, but you need that tended first before you bleed to death. Then you can talk as much as ye like."

Faramir knelt beside her and took the bandages Pippin handed him without a word, working on the wound with quiet thoughtfulness. "I have not the skill with healing that our King has, though I will try. Athelas would be best, but I have none. So---" he reached for a small bundle of herbs that had been left to dry "---I will use what I have. Willow bark and Thyme, those should do."

Tanathel obediently gave him her arm, flinching slightly at his touch on the tender flesh. "A deep cut, but clean, and not enough to need stitching," Faramir mused, without looking up at her as he washed the wound gently with water from the tank nearby. "A little thyme added to the water, to cleanse any infection." He'd found his people seemed to do best when they knew what he was doing to them, and so kept a running monologue for them. He took a small cup and set it nearby after dropping a touch of powder into it. "And after we've bound this up, you're to drink that, every drop." He put a final wrap to the bandages on her arm, and pointed to the cup. "Every drop," he repeated sternly.

Tanathel grimaced at the bitter taste, but did as ordered, draining the cup completely and handing it back without a word of complaint. She nodded her readiness to him.

"If Boromir has been taken completely, we've no choice but to put things into action now," Faramir declared, his face once more set and determined. "We cannot flee to Henneth Annun, Boromir knows the ways into the fortress. We must bide here, and cause what trouble we can for Saruman and the Worm."

There was a hint of dark humor in the Steward's eyes that Tanathel didn't much care for. Her normally gentle, kind Captain was turning into a stranger before her, hardened and bitter, and the change distressed her. She reminded herself forcefully that he was not called the Tiger for nothing. This cat had claws, and fangs, and knew how to use them to best effect. The thought steadied her.

"Come, now, into the tunnels, everyone," Faramir ordered as he glanced out of the door. "While it is still clear. Then we'll put our plans in motion."

(Rohan)

The sentry raised the cry, and the Rohirrim took it up as one. "The Beacons, the beacons are lit!"

The Kings, who had been hunched over the map table planning the best angle of attack, emerged from the darkness as one, followed quickly by Merry and the Marshals of the Mark. They stood as one, seeing the bright flames, feeling hope reborn within them, as it was within all the Rohirrim.

"Faramir yet lives," Aragorn breathed softly, feeling the tightness of his chest begin to loosen. "It is the only way the beacons could have been fired. He found a way. And my faith in him is justified, if he can manage such a feat under the very nose of the Istari."

"Riders of Rohan!" Eomer cried loudly. "We ride with the dawn! We shall sweep down upon our foe as the very breath of death! We ride with the dawn!"

The Rohirrim took up the cry, matching their King's vehemence with their own, swelling the mountains with the sound of their fury. Aragorn found his hopes rising with the tide of the sound. They could do this, they had defeated Sauron, surely they could topple Saruman and his puppets. He found his own voice rising in confirmation of the oath, for surely it was an oath they swore together, to see the balance restored and vengeance done!

Merry moved forward, deftly wending his way between the so much larger bodies of the Riders and going to one knee before Eomer. "My King, I beg you not to discount my usefulness, as has been done before," he said quickly. "It is a three day ride to the Pelennor, of that I am aware, and my pony would not stand the pace. I beg instead that you allow one of the lighter riders to carry me as well, that I might be of some use in the coming battle."

Eomer raised him up, catching his eye, his face stern and forbidding. "We can ill afford the extra weight, Squire, yet it shall be done. You shall ride pillion with me until we reach the Fields. I have no doubt there will be plenty of use for all of us, once the battle is joined." He again raised his voice to carry over the crowd. ""If there be any who wish to join the fight, then they shall!" he thundered. "Take what weapons you will, and follow! Horses you have, though they be not warhorses. Still they will carry you into battle! We ride with the dawn!"

Merry clasped Eomer's hand in friendship and thanks and drew back, allowing the others to close in about him once more. Then, with a last glance toward the Beacons, they withdrew inside to complete their plans and ready themselves to ride to war.

TBC


	15. Fifteen

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth; they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic. **

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.**

**Additional Author's Note: Abject apologies for taking so long to update! RL has been, in a word, hell. But I'm back now, and I hope you enjoy this addition to my tale! Also, please remember that this is set in an Alternate Universe. Things that happened in the movie/book didn't necessarily happen here, or the events were slightly altered. **

**Revolution and Retribution**

**Chapter 15**

(Minas Tirith)

Boromir drew a shaking hand across his brow and frowned. The wizard was doing his utmost to slow him down, and for the moment, it was working. But he had a plan.

He could not seek out Faramir, that much had become painfully clear. Faramir would be working to free the City from the clutches of Saruman, and if Boromir was involved, the wizard could see the plan and thwart them. So, best if he stayed clear.

How could he best serve his King? He had to find a way to help the rebels without being directly involved with them.

His guest had been markedly quiet for some time, and Boromir risked a moment of lowering his defenses. He remained ready to fight back, however, should Saruman again try to control him.

"And what do you seek, Boromir" the wizard's voice purred in his mind. "An end to my intrusion? A way to be finally free of my control? There is none. I gave you life from death. No other could have accomplished such a feat. You are bound to me, Boromir of Gondor. You are bound to me for all eternity. You cannot escape."

Boromir's reply was a wordless snarl. There had to be a way, and he would find it. But, stars above, he was so tired…

He shook his head again, clinging to wakefulness. Slowly, he made his way along the winding streets toward the Citadel. There were many ways in and out of the fortress, and he knew them all. He would find a way to get inside and see who was pulling Saruman's strings. For Saruman, he knew, was merely a puppet of a more powerful being. The wizard would not have forsaken his own body to attempt to possess Boromir for anything less.

If he could destroy the body, would the will be far behind? Perhaps… perhaps that was the answer. He made his way back into the Citadel, his steps heavy from weariness. He must do something, and quickly. If he fell asleep, the wizard would control him completely and Boromir doubted his ability to fight back to control once it slipped. He had to find the wizard's resting place, and find it soon.

(Minas Tirith)

Faramir held up a hand to halt his men. They were near the entrance of the tunnel, looking down on the Pelennor.

Not a thing stirred on the wide plain, and Faramir's brow furrowed in concern. He motioned Tanathel forward. "Behind that ridge is where the Rohirrim will arrive," he said softly. "Go there and wait for them, out of sight of the City, but not out of our sight. There will be a sentry here, watching for you. Once you have sighted them, give the signal and we will implement our plan." He grasped her forearm lightly and turned to take his leave.

"I'll stay here, Faramir," Pippin spoke up quickly. "That frees up someone who could do a bit more good in a fight. And I'm quick enough to reach you once the signal is given."

Tanathel merely nodded. "He makes sense, sir, as uncommon as that is." She had become fond of the Hobbit during their brief association. "And as he says, he would be safe here if the worst befell me. Hopefully it will be the Rohirrim who come up that road first."

"Have faith," Faramir replied sternly. "Our King is a resourceful man; if anyone can find a way, he can. They will come." He turned away once more, his heart heavy. If the worst happened, they were all doomed. Tanathel and Pippin would merely be the first to fall. But he could not show his concern before his men; they counted on him to keep their faith and their hope. If he let them see his own uncertainty, then they would lose heart, and the wizard would be victorious, and Faramir would be damned if he would allow that to happen!

Tanathel nodded again and started out of the tunnel, but Pippin called her back as the others crept back toward the City. "I brought this for you," he said in a rush as he handed her the pouch. "I pilfered it from his private stash, so enjoy it."

She nodded her thanks and started across the Plain, keeping her head low under her hood and cloak to make anyone watching doubt her existence. She was well used to moving unseen, and made it across the ridge before dawn had begun to brighten the sky.

Only then did she check the pouch the Halfling had gifted her with. Laughter bubbled up inside her and she tamped it down with difficulty. She had thought he was providing her supplies; instead, the thoughtful creature had gifted her with the finest pipeweed in all Arda, and a pipe in which to smoke it!

She made a rough camp, far enough off the road not to be discovered by accident, yet close enough to keep a steady eye on the approach. Then, with a silent nod of thanks toward her diminutive friend, she proceeded to enjoy her first pipe since the revolution had begun.

(Rohan)

Eomer guided his mount to one side, allowing the horse to slow as he considered the column. Many more than just the Rohirrim had flocked to his banner, and it was a sizable force. But would it be enough?

Merry spoke at his back. "It'll be enough," he reassured Eomer, almost as though he had read his friend's thoughts. "We'll win this, as we should. You'll see. Aragorn won't allow anything else."

Aragorn drew up next to them. "It is a sizable force, my friend," he remarked idly. "And with the Elves from Eryn Lasgalen joining us at the Crossroads, we will be even more formidable."

A shout went up from one of the outriders and Eomer spun his mount to meet the Rider. "An armed column approaches, my lord, and they are not Elves."

Eomer flashed into action, ordering maneuvers, readying his spear. Aragorn also was ready, and they rode ahead of the main force, moving to meet the intruders and discover their intentions. Legolas joined them swiftly, Gimli as usual mounted behind him.

The Elf gave a cry and raised his bow in welcome as Gimli roared in greeting. They moved forward with haste, quickly outdistancing their companions. Gimli threw himself from the horse and rolled, coming up with a fierce grin and his axe in hand.

"It's about time!" the Dwarf growled, his face fierce. "Aragorn! Come here, lad! Did ye think we Dwarves wouldn't render aid? Five thousand strong, sent from Dain in Erebor. And we are ever at your service."

Aragorn dismounted quickly and came forward, wonder creasing features that had too long been etched in sorrow. "Thank you, my friend," he said softly as he clasped the Dwarf's shoulder in gratitude. "Always my friends have supplied my needs. Your loyalty shall not go unrewarded." He turned to the leader of the Dwarven contingent. "Your name, Captain?"

"I am Falin, son of Farin, Lord Aragorn, at your service. My lord Dain has placed us under your command for the duration. Where might we Dwarves best serve?" He gave a cursory glance over his troops.

"Have your troops close rank with us. We have need of haste, Falin, yet you and your Dwarves must reach Minas Tirith with the strength to fight. Are you rested?" Aragorn gave them more than a cursory glance, trying to judge their fitness for battle.

Falin gave a curt nod. "Fall in! We march for Minas Tirith! Keep in close with the column at regular spacing. Keep your eyes open, there may be Orcs about. We are far too close to discount the possibility." He gave a small bow to Aragorn and took his place with his troops, moving to place himself at the head of the line near the first rank of Rohirrim.

Aragorn allowed himself to begin to hope that things would soon be set to rights. Nothing, nothing would ever ease the losses he had suffered, but life would go on. And he would rebuild what the wizard had destroyed before he sought to join his love.

Pain stabbed at his heart again, no less sharp for its familiarity. Arwen was gone, but there was much to do before he could begin to think of joining her. The White City must be retaken, Saruman brought to justice for his treachery. Then his people might be able to pick up the pieces of their lives and begin anew.

For him, there would be no new beginning. Faramir would be his heir, he would see to that. The Steward had ever been loyal to him, and knew the official duties as well as Aragorn himself. If he survived the coming carnage, he would be the logical choice to rule Gondor.

When he had decided to join Arwen, he didn't know, but the decision had been made nonetheless. He would see his kingdom restored, but then he would leave this life, for life without Arwen wasn't to be borne.

He turned to see Merry watching him closely and gave a small smile. He would have to be careful; the Hobbit was too observant to fool for very long, and he wanted no hint of his plans to be known until it was time.

He gave the cheeky Hobbit another smile, a bigger one, then turned and gave his attention to the road before them.


	16. Sixteen

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth; they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic.

Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.

Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.

Author's Note: This is a bit short, but the Muse decided I'd written enough for one night. I promise another update soon! Oh, and this one wasn't beta-read, so any mistakes you find are mine, all mine.

Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

(The rise above the Pelennor Fields)

Tanathel roused in the dim light and got to her feet quickly, moving toward the road. The ground beneath her shook under the fall of many feet, and she immediately doused her tiny fire and readied her bow. She might get a few shots off before they cut her down, if it were the wrong people headed her way.

She had to resist the urge to grin, however, when she heard the unmistakable jingle of harness. A glad cry rose from her throat and she planted her feet firmly upon the road, watching the column advance.

Aragorn and Eomer headed the column, closely followed by Legolas (and Gimli), Eowyn, and rank after rank of well-armed, well-trained troops. Elves, Dwarves, and Rohirrim stretched as far as her eyes could see along the road and she raised her bow in greeting, giving a glad shout before moving forward to her King.

"Steward Faramir sends his regards, my lord, and bids you welcome home," she reported formally. "The Rangers of Ithilien stand ready to your orders, sire."

"Well met, Tanathel of Ithilien," Aragorn replied gravely. "I had hoped to find you whole at the end of this road. Report."

"Orcs control the city, on Saruman's orders," she stated baldly. "Those who would not bend to his will have either been imprisoned or slain. The Rangers are working on freeing those left while we speak." She hoped Pippin had seen her glad greeting of the column; if so, then Faramir had been given the signal to begin. This plan was a miracle of timing. One misstep and it could all go awry. "We must come to the Gates before nightfall, my lord. Everything depends upon you, now."

"I trust Faramir confided his plan to you, at least," Aragorn said, a hint of humor in his voice. "Come, then, ride with me and tell me all."

(Minas Tirith)

Pippin scurried through the darkness of the tunnels. He'd seen Tanathel's welcome of the column, he'd seen Aragorn and the others, he'd even seen Merry! That seemed to him a good sign. So he was headed deeper into the City to inform Faramir, as he'd been instructed.

A figure stepped into his path and he halted, taking a step backward reflexively as the intruder was recognized. Boromir, however, didn't seem to recognize him in return. In fact, it seemed that the big man hadn't even noticed him.

Pippin was torn. He had his orders, but the man before him had risked all, even given his very life to protect Pippin at Amon Hen. He couldn't let this go without even an attempt to help his friend. But what then of Faramir's plan? He couldn't fail the Steward, either. For a fleeting moment, he wished he was back in the Shire before the Ring had been found.

Then he took matters into his own hands. Boromir still hadn't registered his presence, it seemed. The man was plodding steadily toward the Citadel, his steps heavy. He seemed overcome with weariness, yet he staggered on. Pippin seized the opportunity and hefted a stone, his heart pounding with trepidation at the thought of what he was about to do.

He tested the stone's weight in his hand, wondering if it would be heavy enough to do the job without giving permanent harm to Boromir, and decided there wasn't much choice in any case. With a silent apology to his friend, he let fly.

Boromir dropped without a sound and Pippin breathed a small sigh of relief as he checked the warrior. A small rill of blood dripped from the point of impact at his temple, but otherwise the Gondorian seemed unharmed. His heart beat steady and slow against Pippin's fingertips.

What to do now? Suddenly this act seemed a bit foolhardy to the Hobbit. He would have to leave Boromir bound and gagged in the tunnel, and hope that the Orcs didn't find him before Pippin could return with help. There was no hope for it.

Quickly he set to work, using his dagger to slice through Boromir's cloak and fashioning strips to bind him with. Hands behind, so he couldn't get them free to grasp a weapon and perhaps cut his way free, feet bound firmly together, and a loop of material holding arms and feet together. Then he moved away, doubling his speed to reach Faramir in time.

(Minas Tirith)

Faramir glanced up sharply as he heard a sound in the tunnel. Not his loyal Hobbit, he knew; Pippin could move as soundlessly as the wind when necessary.

Quickly he signaled his men to fall back. He would meet whoever this foe was and hope to drop him quickly and silently. He raised his sword

and lowered it quickly. "Have a care, little Hobbit, you almost got yourself killed," he hissed as he brought Pippin forward rather more forcefully than necessary. "It's a good thing I know you're loyal. Why are you racketing about in the dark? We have need of stealth, Peregrine, as well you know."

"I wasn't trying to be too quiet, Faramir, because we have a small problem and the sooner you know of it the better," Pippin fired back saucily. "Everything is on schedule. Aragorn picked Tanathel up about half an hour ago. They're making their way to the Gate now."

Faramir nodded to his men and they silently departed, each for his assigned area. They would cause trouble within the City, keep the Orcs occupied until the force had reached the Gate. "Tell me," he demanded.

"I left Boromir trussed up a couple of turns behind me."

Faramir blinked. "You did what?" he finally asked when he found his voice.

"I bounced a rock off that thick skull of his and then I tied him up, gagged him, stuffed him out of sight, and came here." Pippin shifted guiltily from one foot to the other, unable to look Faramir in the eye. "I didn't know what else to do, and we have to do something about him. We can't just let Saruman control him forever." There, it was out, what he'd been worrying about since word had first come of Boromir's revival. No matter what, he was going to try and help his Big Man. Boromir had risked all, given all, and still tried to help him and Merry until the life left his body. Pippin thought that just had to mean something.

Faramir went to one knee, bringing himself level with the Hobbit's gaze. "Yes, we have to help him. Bless you for thinking fast." He rose and laid a hand on Pippin's shoulder. "Show me where."


	17. Seventeen

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth; they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic. **

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**A special thank you is in order, to Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless encouragement. Thanks so much for being a sounding board, hon, I really appreciate it!**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.**

**Revolution and Retribution**

**Chapter Seventeen**

(The Gates of Minas Tirith - Outside)

Eomer called the column to a halt and looked to Aragorn. Aragorn merely nodded, and the leaders urged their horses forward, stopping just outside the range of the archers on the wall.

"Hear me!" Aragorn thundered, his eyes on the walls. "Elessar Telcontar, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Rightful King of Gondor, bids you surrender your weapons and open the Gates of the City!"

Silence was his only answer. Silence, and an uneasy shifting of the men on the wall.

Aragorn looked to Eomer, who only shrugged. "We knew it would not be so easy," he said softly.

Aragorn nodded and turned his attention back to the guards. "So be it. This city is under siege. None shall leave, none shall enter, until it is surrendered back to its rightful ruler." He felt Tanathel's nod at his back and turned his mount, returning to the troops.

Eomer's voice boomed out. "Take your assigned positions. No one is to pass the lines."

Aragorn dismounted as Tanathel slid from the back of the stallion and faced her squarely. "There is one small alteration I will make to Faramir's plan," he announced as he watched her prepare to re-enter the tunnels into the city. "I am going with you."

"No!" The denial was heard clearly from all sides of him. Tanathel whirled and glared at him, her blade half-fastened at her waist. "Absolutely not, Sire," she spat as she finished with the belt. "You cannot be risked, not now."

"She is right, Aragorn." Eomer's voice was calmer, though it also carried steel. "You cannot be risked. You are all Gondor has. You cannot take such a chance yet."

"Easy, laddie. It's hard to watch others do the dirty work, aye, but it needs to be done."

Voices crowded him from all sides, all voicing the same concern, that he was too valuable to risk. He silenced them all with the weight of his gaze. "I will ask no one to undertake what I would not risk myself. I am going, and that is the end of it."

It was silent for a long moment, and he gave a thought to their objections. They all made sense, all of them; but he had to do this. He had failed Boromir once before; he would not again. If there was a chance he could be saved, then Aragorn had to try. He took a deep breath. "If the worst should happen, Faramir shall stand as my heir. That is my wish; see that it goes uncontested. Tanathel?"

She glared at him for a moment more, then threw up her hands. "Let's go, then, if we can't talk you out of this madness. But once in the tunnels, my Lord, you must follow my lead. I know them better than you do."

"Do you so?" Aragorn's voice was tinged with humor. "I am the High King, Tanathel. I know these tunnels quite well. Come, let us find Faramir."

(Minas Tirith, the Tunnels near the Citadel)

Pippin knelt next to the bound Boromir and quickly untied the rope connecting his wrists and ankles. "He should be awake by now. I didn't hit him that hard, and the rock certainly wasn't that heavy."

Faramir helped him roll Boromir over and they both backed up a step as the sheer malevolence in those green eyes hit them. "Well, we won't be taking the gag off anytime soon, I'd say," Pippin murmured nervously. "Well, then, Faramir, what would you suggest?"

"I think we should get him out of sight, as well as ourselves," Faramir hissed as he took one arm and gestured for Pippin to do the same. "We don't dare untie him yet. And we have no way of telling who will be next down this tunnel. Come, this way. There's an exit up ahead that will take us into the stables again."

"Not that way. Listen." Pippin had heard what they had both been dreading. There was open fighting in the streets above them. "It sounds like your men are enjoying their work."

Pippin's eyes met Faramir's as they simultaneously reached the same conclusion. Aragorn! If anyone could reach Boromir, it would be Aragorn. They had to get him back into the City somehow.

"I will stay with Boromir," Pippin said firmly as he watched Faramir's face. "You go and collect Tanathel, do what you must. We'll be all right here. But the sooner we get Aragorn back into the city, the sooner we can help your brother."

Faramir turned Boromir's face to his, forcing himself not to flinch at the hatred he saw there. It couldn't be Boromir's emotion. "I do not know if you can understand me through his control, but you must try. We will help you all we can. Aragorn is coming." Was that a flash of hope in those green eyes? Surely it had been. He then turned his attention back to his brave little hobbit and nodded. "I will bring him to you as soon as I can. Be safe, the both of you."

As they watched him move away, Pippin remarked idly, "So, what should I tell you about first? I know! Let me tell you about the Shire."

(Minas Tirith - Boromir)

Boromir railed against the wizard's control, but could do nothing. He had not the strength to repel Saruman, not once he had taken full control.

He supposed he ought to be thankful for Pippin's well-placed stone; although his head felt a few sizes larger than it had before. Wait, what was Faramir saying? Aragorn? Aragorn was coming here!

Even Pippin's chatter couldn't blot the hope he felt surging through him. Aragorn would be able to help him, he knew it deep in his bones. Oh, he could hear every word the Hobbit spoke, and was grateful for the distraction, but nothing could dampen his spirits now. Not even the wizard, seeking to control every portion of him. He found himself pushing harder against Saruman's controls, feeling himself gain ground, if only slightly.

"Why do you persist, Boromir?" the wizard crooned in his mind. "You are lost. You are mine. No one can change this, not even that ragged Dunedain."

"I persist because you are foul, and you should be sent into the abyss where you belong," Boromir snapped back. "I will never stop fighting you. And you should be afraid, Saruman. That ragged Dunedain, as you call him, is my King. I would follow him into the very fires of Mordor, should he ask it of me. And until Aragorn himself should tell me to cease resisting, I will not!"

He gave a desperate shove against the barriers the Istari had placed around him and felt them shatter. The pain was beyond belief; a hoarse cry was torn from his throat and Pippin was instantly beside him again. "Boromir? Boromir, how do I know it's really you?" The hobbit's voice was strained with worry.

Boromir tried to indicate that Pippin should take the gag off, but the Halfling just stared at him. Boromir supposed he'd do the same, in this situation, but it didn't ease his frustration any. How to get that cheeky little sprat to turn him loose?

He managed to lock his eyes with Pippin's, hoping his little one would be able to read them. Of all the Fellowship, his bond with his little ones was the strongest. Pippin had to see, had to understand!

He watched the hobbit wrestle with himself for long moments, knowing the conflict in his friend's mind, wishing he could reassure him. But the decision had to be Pippin's, he knew. Pippin had to understand that Boromir was no longer a threat to him.

Boromir could have wept with relief when Pippin finally reached up and loosed the gag. He spat it out and took several deep breaths. "Untie me, Pippin," he urged. "Hurry!"

**TBC**


	18. Eighteen

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth; they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic. **

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**A special thank you is in order, to Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless encouragement. Thanks so much for being a sounding board, hon, I really appreciate it!**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.**

**A/N: Everyone give a round of applause to Ithil-valon for saving my skin and this story. I lost everything off my computer in a MAJOR crash this past weekend, and she thankfully had copies of everything to restore to me. She deserves a big hug and my undying gratitude, and has them. **

**Eighteen**

**(Minas Tirith Tunnels)**

Tanathel flattened herself against the wall and pulled Aragorn next to her. "Something's wrong. This is where I was to meet Faramir."

"I'm here, Tanathel, but there's a problem " Faramir pulled up sharply when he saw Aragorn and immediately turned his attention that direction. "Welcome home, my lord. Might your Steward ask why in the heavens you are risking yourself like this?"

Aragorn pulled him into a tight hug, then set him back. "These are my people. Where else should I be? Safely behind the lines of battle, where I cannot help them? Never!" He turned matters back quickly. "What is the problem you mentioned?"

"Boromir. Pippin is guarding him a few turns away. We have to help him." Faramir's voice had softened, but the steel never left it. "Once we have taken back the City, we must help him. The wizard still controls him. He is not himself."

"Say that to my face, little brother."

All of them faced Boromir with amazement. Tanathel went for her sword and Faramir grasped her wrist firmly. "Wait," he said simply as Pippin bounced out from behind the man and ran to them.

Boromir came slowly forward to meet them, his blade still sheathed, his hands empty. He had removed the overtunic with its coat of arms and was clad only in the leather armor he had been given. The device had been obliterated from it, as well, burned away. He knelt before Aragorn, head bowed respectfully. "My King, I am ever at your service," he said simply.

Aragorn raised him up as Tanathel relaxed and Faramir gave a sound of relief. "Never, never did I expect to see you alive again, my friend," Aragorn replied as he pulled the man into a tight embrace. "We will do this properly later, Boromir, right now we _must_ regain control of the City."

"No, we should get you _out_ of the City. My brother spoke to me while Saruman was still in control. He knows you are here!"

A roar of noise reached them, growing in volume, and the group flashed into action. Swords were drawn, and Boromir placed himself squarely between the oncoming enemy and Aragorn. Tanathel ranged herself beside him, pushing Faramir firmly behind. "Pippin, get them out!" Boromir roared.

They sprinted out of the tunnels, headed for the safety of the waiting troops, Boromir and Tanathel bringing up the rear. Tanathel had produced her longbow and motioned to Boromir to get behind her and she would cover their escape.

She only managed one shot before Boromir had grabbed her by the hair and yanked her toward him, allowing the Elven archers a clear shot at the approaching Orcs. She lost her footing and landed hard, the breath knocked from her.

She forced herself to her feet, gasping for air, and moved to join the rest of them safely behind the line. Boromir was being welcomed heartily; it seemed most everyone was trying to get a chance to embrace the man, or at least get a close glimpse of him. He was smiling widely, but hadn't strayed far from his brother's side.

There was a commotion at the back of the crowd and Boromir stiffened, then relaxed when he heard the voice. "Let me through, let me through! Boromir!"

Boromir pushed his way toward the Hobbit, his eyes misting over. He'd thought it grand that Pippin had survived; but to know that both of them had lived through the ordeal at Amon Hen overwhelmed him. He knelt down as Merry barreled forward, catching the fast-moving Hobbit in his arms, then gathering the other also in close. Tears ran unashamed down his face. "My little ones," he said softly as he held them close. The crowd had thinned, then dissolved to allow them some privacy.

All three were weeping with joy. Their voices ran together as each sought to be the first to speak, and then laughter broke the tears as they realized what was happening. "There isn't time for much talk, I'm afraid," Boromir said softly as he set them back on their feet. "There is so much to say! It makes my heart sing to know that you both survived. Once this is over, you must tell me everything. Everything!" He ruffled Merry's hair and laid a hand on Pippin's shoulder. "How much you have learned! When we met, neither of you knew anything of soldiery, yet now you both are hardened campaigners, I can see." He laughed softly, his eyes bright. "I must talk to Aragorn now. I'm sure he'll be calling a Council, so you both should ready yourselves."

They nodded and moved back, Merry heading for the Rohirrim and Pippin toward Aragorn's pavilion. Boromir made no move to follow, just yet; there was another he was most impatient to speak with.

He found Faramir in the Steward's pavilion, and the moment gave him pause. Yet he entered quickly, wishing only to have a few moments with his brother.

Faramir fell on him like a small boy greeting his father after months apart, weeping, barely coherent. Boromir felt more tears in his own eyes and just held his brother, reveling in the contact, content to do no more than just feel Faramir so close to him, a feeling he'd thought never to have again. "Hush, Puss, shh, it's all right now," he crooned.

It was as if nothing had changed between them. Boromir had done most of the raising of Faramir, since their mother had died. Denethor discouraged weakness, and found many signs of it in his younger son, leaving him to fare as he might and fawning over the older. Boromir had never stood for it, preferring instead to treasure his brother, teach him, support him, and made no objection to becoming a surrogate father to him. Indeed, there were days when Boromir felt more of a father to Faramir than he should.

Denethor had never hated the boy; he had only chosen to ignore Faramir's existence by and large. Oh, he had done the things he should, had him trained, had him taught; but for the most part, he had ignored his younger son with the single-mindedness of a man who knows the younger is but a spare for the older.

The Heir and the Spare, they had indeed been called for a time. Until Boromir had heard the phrase and put a stop to it, rather spectacularly, as it turned out.

He pushed those thoughts aside as he heard Faramir's sobs begin to fade. "Easy, brother. I'm here." He set Faramir back slightly, so he could look into the face of the man he had become. "So dignified you've become, so serious. Where is my devilish little brother?" he teased.

"Your devilish little brother, you dunce, is all grown up and Steward to the King of Gondor," Faramir laughed back at him. "I have to be dignified and serious. Well, most of the time." He couldn't stop smiling. "Eru, Boromir, I have missed you so!"

"Faramir, I have to talk to Aragorn." How he hated to leave his brother _now_! "When this is over…"

"When this is over, we'll take time for ourselves, I promise that. You will come to Ithilien with me and see the home Eowyn and I have made. See the children, they'll love that."

Children? His Puss was a father? And more than once, by the sound of things! Eru, there was so much he didn't know! "Of course. We have things we must do beforehand, Fara-mine. I must go to Aragorn, we _must_ prepare." Boromir's eyes hardened. "The tunnels are lost to us, it is true. But I might have a way to sneak a small force into the Citadel nonetheless."


	19. Nineteen

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth; they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic. **

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**A special thank you is in order, to Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless encouragement. Thanks so much for being a sounding board, hon, I really appreciate it!**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.**

Chapter Nineteen

(The King's Pavilion)

Aragorn had not removed his armor, preferring to remain in readiness. Farin's Dwarves had rallied and kept the Orcs from advancing any farther than the tunnel's mouth, with the support of the Greenwood's Archers. That threat was at least contained.

He sat back in his chair, closing his eyes wearily. His heart tore anew as Arwen appeared before him, the sword strokes she had taken vividly visible, her eyes full of pain and sorrow.

His eyes flew open in denial. No more, he pleaded silently, I can take no more. Arwen, forgive me, he spoke softly. Soon. Soon we will be together. 

A scratching at the flap alerted him and he composed himself quickly. "Enter," he called, his voice showing none of his inner turmoil.

Boromir came into the tent and came straight to his King, kneeling before him. "I would make this right, before we are drawn any further into this war," he said simply.

Aragorn stood and drew him up. "I have no need for ceremony at the moment, my friend," he replied firmly. "Come, break your fast with me and we will talk. Let there be no King and Captain here, only two friends who share their troubles." He caught Boromir's gaze and held it sternly. "Nor is there anything to make right, Boromir. I forgave you all at Amon Hen, my friend. My brother."

Boromir nodded, his eyes holding Aragorn's, seeing the sorrow and despair in his eyes clearly. "I would offer my counsel, then, as I did so disastrously before. Perhaps I have gained some wisdom from my death."

Aragorn sat at the small table and smiled at his comrade. "Perhaps," he replied evenly. "Let me hear your counsel, since you seem most insistent." He grinned, but the smile never reached his eyes, and Boromir noted it. Nonetheless, since he had been bidden to speak, speak he did.

"It occurs to me that if Saruman was in my mind, perhaps he is aware of all I know. That could be catastrophic if he were to find that knowledge quickly. I propose a frontal assault, and quickly, to keep him from having time to dwell upon what he might have discovered from me while I was under his sway." He raised a hand at the protest he saw forming on Aragorn's lips. "Hear me out! There are ways into the City that even Faramir does not know. I propose to send a small company through one of them, to open the Gates for the main force. Once inside the City, our task will be far easier. We can fight our way to the Citadel itself if we must. But once inside the gates, _we_ have the advantage. And those who are loyal to you will rise to your call."

"You are so certain, Boromir?" Aragorn hated what he knew he must ask. "What if this ingenious notion is something Saruman wished you to have? What then? You would have delivered your King to his death."

"If there was any doubt in my mind, I would not have spoken," Boromir answered slowly. "I understand your hesitation. What must I do to prove to you that I am in my right mind, that Saruman no longer controls my thoughts? That this plan is of my own making, and not a trap conjured by that foul piece of wizardry? I swear to you, none but myself knows of this entrance. I discovered it by accident. I do not believe even my father knew of it. But as we speak, Saruman has time to discover it, if he has access to the thoughts and memories that I had when he was cast out. We must move quickly, Aragorn, if we expect to keep the advantage."

Aragorn kept his gaze on Boromir's face, reading what he saw there and relaxing slightly. This was his friend, his companion from the Ring Quest. Not a trace of guile or deceit was visible in those vivid green orbs. "I believe you," he said simply. He called for Pippin, knowing the Hobbit would be close. "Send word to the leaders. We will hold Council two hours hence. And see that Tanathel attends as well." She had more than earned her place among them, and he returned his attention to Boromir. "We will put your plans on the table for the Council to decide, my friend. And now, let us simply pass some companionable time together. What shall we talk about?

"Ultimately, the decision is yours, my liege," Boromir replied quietly. "Yet we will allow for some discussion. Perhaps one of the others can provide a better plan." He shrugged, and his eyes caught Aragorn's once more, and held them. "I would talk about the Quest, then. Tell me everything."


	20. Twenty

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth; they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic. **

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**A special thank you is in order, to Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless encouragement. Thanks so much for being a sounding board, hon, I really appreciate it!**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.**

**Chapter Twenty**

**A Council of War**

**(The King's Pavilion)**

Aragorn gazed around the table at the assembled leaders and nodded. "Before we begin, there is a matter I wish clarified," he said firmly. "It is my wish that my Steward, Faramir of the House of Hurin, shall stand as my Heir. Should the unthinkable happen, and we should both fall, then choose who you will to replace us. These are my wishes, and they will be carried out." His gaze swept the table, searching for resistance to his words, and found none. He nodded. "Boromir has suggested a plan to open the City to us. Boromir?"

Boromir spread the map his brother had provided on the table, weighting it down along the edges and quickly indicating the entrance he spoke of. "There is an old access near the base of Mindolluin, near the Second Circle of the City. It is a small door, easily overlooked, and quite overgrown by small trees and flowers on the inside." He looked around the table. "It will require some climbing to reach. The steps that were originally carved for it have long since worn away. But it will open easily, and it leads to the surround on the wall. With the right… encouragement… the men on the wall could be swayed to our position. And once we control the First Circle, it will be far easier to advance into the City."

"And what do you propose we do while you are reaching this entrance?" Eomer demanded. "Sit here idly and do nothing? Merely keep up the blockade? We could accomplish that with less than half the force that even now guards the City."

"Indeed you could." Boromir faced Eomer squarely. "The blockade must stand. But the rest of our force will be needed to enter the City. Have no doubts, the fighting will be fierce. But unless we can open the Gates, this whole action is lost. We _must_ get Aragorn back into the City where his people can see that he lives!"

Eomer subsided thoughtfully. He had known Boromir for many years, longer than most others present, except his brother. He knew the man to be an excellent tactician. It was just that all this _waiting _was beginning to wear upon his nerves. He nodded his acquiescence.

"Are we all in agreement then? Boromir shall choose his company, and this will be put into action. Boromir, how long before you believe the Gates will be opened? We do not want to misjudge the timing and end up as archery practice." Aragorn was speaking in a humorous vein, but Boromir could still see the overwhelming sorrow in his grey/blue gaze. And the underlying note was one of steel to counter the foolish words.

"We shall spare you the role of target, my lord," Boromir quipped back. "We shall raise your standard upon the Wall when the Gates are secured. But a small force cannot hold for long; you must be ready when the standard flies."

"We are agreed, gentlemen?" Aragorn didn't wait for any dissent. "Boromir, choose your people and make ready. Come to me before you depart. The rest of us will make ready to enter the City." He gestured to the exit and watched everyone leave. Tanathel gave him a sharp glance, but then followed the others from the pavilion. Boromir, on the other hand, remained behind.

"A moment, my liege, if you would," he began simply.

"Boromir, you should see the armorer. Those leathers will not suit for very long against Orcs and Uruk-hai." Aragorn had intended to dismiss the man, but Boromir was having none of it.

"Aragorn, you have named Faramir your Heir. You speak as one who knows he has not long left in this world. What madness is this? You are whole, healthy, and hearty to my eyes. Have you no faith in your people? Have you no faith in _me?"_

Aragorn merely lifted an eyebrow. "And what do you basis this supposition on, my friend? I named Faramir as Heir because there are none of my children left alive. I have no heir of my body to leave my kingdom to, Boromir. And I supposed, if you were the same man I knew on the Quest, that you would want none of it. I believe you told me once that Faramir would make an excellent Steward, and you would not. You preferred soldiering. Has this changed?"

"It has not." Boromir held Aragorn's eyes with his own. "And this is not about me. It is about you, and this damnable horror that has happened to you. I see it in your eyes. You soldier on, hoping that your pain will ease. And when it does not, you find other ways to risk yourself. Other ways to perhaps bring about that which you wish most, an end to your torment. A reunion with your beloved. And I say to that, you are a fool."

Aragorn's gaze became positively glacial, but Boromir would not stop. "What of your duty to your people, Aragorn? Would you so simply push that aside to rejoin your lady? Would she condone that? I think not. I think she would be appalled, dismayed, horrified by your lack of judgment. I think she would much rather you go on living to remember her, to remember her love for you, than to throw away that love with your untimely death."

"That is enough, Boromir," Aragorn spat furiously. "You know not of what you speak. Go, see the armorer. Outfit yourself properly. Then get your people and get moving. We have much to do."

"Aye, we have a lot to accomplish, and a short time to do so. Very well, I will go. But I leave you with this, my King: What would you have done, had your lady indeed sailed to the Undying lands and forsaken you here? Would you have put an end to yourself then?" Boromir went to kneel before Aragorn, his head lowered respectfully. "I speak this way only out of my love for my king, sire," he said softly, with a firm tone. "I would follow you into the very fires of Mordor, did you ask it of me. I say again what I pledged at Amon Hen: That I will follow you, my brother, my Captain. My King." And so saying, he stood and departed.

Aragorn was left in silence, to ponder what his friend had said…


	21. TwentyOne

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth; they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic. **

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.**

**Revolution and Retribution**

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Tanathel was waiting at the makeshift armory when Boromir arrived. "Here, I've found some things for you already," she began simply. She indicated the table where a large selection of weapons stood ready. "Swords, knives… there are shields just there, I tried to find the larger ones, since Captain Faramir said you preferred those. And I think these will fit you." She handed him a set of fighting leathers, stouter and thicker than those he wore. They weren't traditional Gondor issue; they were dark, almost black in color, and there was no sign of the White Tree anywhere upon them. "We've no armor to fit, and no time to forge any, either. We'll have to make do."

She had collected new weapons as well. Matched blades hung at her sides, dagger hilts protruded from the top of both boots, her longbow hung at her back with her quiver over-full. And strapped to her wrists she wore two more blades, just barely longer than her fingers.

Boromir raised an eyebrow at the wrist sheaths. "What do you plan to do with those?" he asked quietly as he took one hand to inspect them more closely. "Wicked-looking things."

She took the hand back quickly, taking care not to slice him with the open blade. "They're punching blades," she replied evenly. "My father taught me to use them. If the fighting gets too thick, I can use my fists to cut down the enemy. They're really rather effective, once you get used to them."

Boromir nodded. "You seem to think this is a suicide mission. Do you not trust me?" He chose a long, broad blade, checking it carefully for balance and nodding to himself as he added it to his collection. A heavy, large circular shield was next. "Armor seems to be the only thing missing, and you've provided the best that can be had at the moment." He picked up the leathers and gauged them carefully; the fit would be quite nearly perfect.

"Of course I trust you. His Highness trusts you, and Captain Faramir does as well. That's enough for me. I just believe in being prepared." She shrugged eloquently. "You're welcome to use those until you can replace your armor. Try not to bleed on them?" She stopped at the tent flap and turned back to meet his questioning eyes. "They were my father's." And she was gone outside to wait for him.

Boromir took a perverse pleasure in setting the leathers Saruman had provided into the fire of the forge. Then he stepped out into the bright sunlight.

Several pairs of eyes met his, and he stifled the grin that threatened. Time enough for humor when the job was done. "I suppose you all think you are coming with me?"

Legolas stepped forward, the barest hint of a smile showing. "You have need of us, _mellon-nin._ We should waste no more time."

"Aye, let's get on with this," Gimli growled. "It's time and past we get Aragorn back where he belongs."

Tanathel merely nodded in agreement with the Dwarf, and Merry and Pippin stepped forward as well. "We're little, so we can sneak about better than you, Big Man," Pippin quipped.

Boromir couldn't hide the smile. "Merry, you have permission from Eomer for this?" He put on his command face quickly. This wasn't a picnic; and he didn't want his little ones in any more danger if he could help it. He waited only for the Hobbit's nod before he turned his attention to Pippin. "I have a special duty for you, Peregrine Took."

He took the Halfling aside. "I need someone to keep an unobtrusive eye on Aragorn," he began softly. "He is lost in his despair, and I fear some evil may try to exploit it. If you notice anything amiss, you are to go immediately to Faramir, do you understand?"

Pippin nodded, clearly dismayed at being left behind, although the satisfaction of being left in such a responsible position clearly warred with the feeling. He left for Aragorn's tent, his step heavy.

Boromir spared no more than a glance for the little soldier and raked his command gaze over his troops once more. "Let's move out. The sooner this is done, the sooner we will see Aragorn back on the White Throne, and Gondor will be restored."

They forced a march across the plain, bearing to the north slightly, as though headed away from the city. They walked until dark began to fall, then doubled back toward the base of Mount Mindolluin. Who knew what spies Saruman had watching them?

"At least this time we're not lugging supplies as well," Merry chuckled as they called a halt, barely able to see each other in the shadow of the mountain. "How much farther, Boromir?"

"We're making for that little cleft in the rock, near the wall of the City, so not far," was the whispered answer. "There were steps there, long ago, leading to the door I found. Now it's little more than a foot path, and a steep one. Once we're through the door, we'll be on the Ramparts of the First Circle. There, we might even find help from the Guards that are loyal to Aragorn, if any remain."

A short trek later, they had reached the cleft. Slowly, slowly they clambered up the rock face, each one sure-footed on the difficult surface. Boromir tried the latch on the door and winced when it gave a high, metallic screech. "No help for it now," he grumbled as he hauled the door wide and stepped into the flowers growing on the other side. "Anyone listening will have heard that. Single file. Legolas, you take point."

The Elf nodded and moved forward silently, confident he could kill any scouts before the alarm could be raised. Tanathel moved immediately behind him, silent as a shadow and appearing just as deadly as the Elf. Gimli, Merry, and Boromir fell in behind, with Boromir in the tail position.

Tanathel touched Legolas and signaled something, then moved next to him. Together they crept forward and each dispatched an Orc, neatly and silently. No alarm had yet been raised.

Boromir began to feel apprehensive. Someone, Orc or Man, should have heard the hinges on that door squealing like a demented sow in heat. Something was very wrong if they hadn't.

Legolas drew his dagger to throw and suddenly Tanathel knocked it aside, moving ahead rapidly and throwing herself at the man in question. His cloak was drawn, and it looked for a moment as if they would collide, when he snapped around and grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to him.

"You've still got a lot to learn, Tanathel," the Ranger snapped softly. He set her back and turned to the others, giving Boromir a salute and nodding for the others in the party. "I am Norick, my lord. When Faramir didn't come, we devised a different plan," he explained, his voice no more than a whisper of wind in the darkness. "We have taken the Wall, Captain-General, and only awaited morning to raise the King's Banner and open the Gates."


	22. TwentyTwo

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth; they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic. **

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**A special thank you is in order, to Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless encouragement. Thanks so much for being a sounding board, hon, I really appreciate it!**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.**

**Revolution and Retribution**

**Chapter Twenty-two**

Aragorn sat in the dim light of the Pavilion, considering Boromir's words. How had he fallen so far from what he was? Had he truly considered such a selfish act as suicide?

Boromir was right, Arwen would be appalled. Elves could fade from grief, it was true, but he was no Elf. Raised by them, it was true, and as such he was well-versed in the codes of honor and conduct they believed.

Honor demanded he see this through. He had a responsibility to his people, to rule them well, to protect them. He could not shirk that, no matter how his heart bled with the need to be with her. He would not dishonor her memory, nor himself. He _could _not. It was not in him to betray a trust.

His people trusted him. He would not betray that trust. Not ever. Faramir would remain his Heir, for there would be no other woman in his Arwen's place. But he must live out his life as intended, for her sake. She had not forsaken the immortality of the Elves for him to be a selfish prat.

The decision was made. He straightened and took in first one deep breath, then another. His mind felt clearer than it had in days, and he welcomed it as a sign that he had made the right choice. He called firmly for Pippin.

"Yes, Aragorn?" The cheeky little Hobbit came to stand just behind his chair and he allowed a tiny smile.

"I have no need of a guard, Peregrine Took, no matter how well-intentioned it was meant," he said simply as he drew the little one forward to meet his gaze. "Put aside your fears, you need not harbor them any longer. I will not embrace death until it is my time to do so."

Pippin's eyes filled up and he threw his arms around the startled King, holding him tightly. "I didn't like spying on you, Strider, but we were that worried! You just weren't yourself! And Faramir might make a mighty king, a grand king, but he isn't _you!"_

Aragorn was drawing breath to make a reply when the canvas rustled again. "Enter," he called as he set the Hobbit down again. "Yes, Faramir, what is it?"

"It is time, sire," Faramir said simply. "The sun will rise soon. We wait only upon you."

Aragorn nodded and rose, leaving the tent with a firm stride and went straight to Brego, mounting in one fluid motion and drawing Pippin up behind him. The predawn light lent an eerie quality to the air, and he felt a moment's apprehension. If Boromir and his company had failed…

Sound split the air, and a great cry went up from the assembled. Trumpets, trumpets were sounding in the ever lightening morning, and a great relief swelled inside Aragorn's breast at the sound. In his mind, he heard words from long ago, spoken in the still of the night, but no less powerful for their simplicity.

"_Have you ever seen it, Aragorn? The White Tower of Ecthelion, glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver. Its banners caught high in the Morning breeze. Have you ever been called home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?_

"_One day, our paths will lead us there. And the Tower Guards shall take up the call: The Lords of Gondor have returned."_

Boromir's words seemed prophetic, when taken against this dawn. For the Lords of Gondor had indeed returned; and they would take back what was theirs.

"Riders up!" Aragorn thundered, and they began the march to the wide open Gates of Minas Tirith.


	23. TwentyThree

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth; they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic. **

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**A special thank you is in order, to Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless encouragement. Thanks so much for being a sounding board, hon, I really appreciate it!**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.**

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

The trumpets continued Aragorn's fanfare despite the growing sounds of battle in the streets of the First Circle. Orcs poured forth from the Gates, only to fall as the Rangers on the walls used their bows to deadly effect. The King's Banner flew high in the breeze, mocking the foul cries of the Orcs as they tried to repel the invaders.

The Rangers kept up their volleys, thinning the ranks of the enemy, and as they drew closer, Aragorn could see his people in the thick of the melee. Boromir, his fair head bared for all to see, was steadfastly cutting his way through the ranks of the enemy, ever advancing toward the gates to the Second Level. Tanathel kept close to him, obviously guarding his back, her blades flashing in the dawn light, relentless and cold.

Gimli and Legolas were up to their old tricks; the clear sound of the Elf's voice as he counted off the dead, the growling tones of the Dwarf as he tried to match his friend's tally. Merry stayed near them, his smaller blade no less accurate, no less deadly.

Aragorn held aloft Anduril, his voice harsh as he sounded the charge. Horses surged forward, leaving the foot troops behind; but there would be plenty for all to fight, he was certain.

The troops met with a crash, swords ringing in the morning sun, the Rohirrim keeping close to the outskirts of the battle, preventing any fleeing Orcs from escaping, riding them down with a fierce joy. "Eomer!" he cried. "Have your men secure the Gates! Let none escape!"

With that, he drove forward into the City, Pippin at his back with his own small sword. Together, they slid down from Brego as they passed the Gates, and Pippin immediately laid into the Orcs, his blade dancing. Aragorn called out again. "Men of Gondor, Elves, Dwarves!" His voice rang with determination. "This will not end until the City is retaken! We must reach the Citadel!"

Gimli shouted to Farin in Dwarvish, and the Captain of the Dwarves moved his company forward, pressing toward the tunnel entrance that Tanathel and Boromir had shown him. "We will clear the tunnels, the rest of you clear the City!" he swore.

Legolas cried orders to his Elves, and they took up positions with the Rangers on the wall. He joined them, the bow of the Galadhrim that Galadriel had gifted him singing as he fired.

Aragorn pressed forward, Anduril flashing almost continuously as he cut a swath through the Orcs. He fought his way through to Boromir and Tanathel, moving as a man possessed, his wrath terrible to behold. "Can we breach the Gates?" he cried as he reached them.

"No need!" Boromir shouted back as he dispatched yet another Orc. "Gates! Open for the King!" he bellowed, and they swung open rapidly, the soldiers behind taking up a ragged cheer even as they fell to the attack. "Your men are loyal, Aragorn, though they had lost their way!"

On and on they pressed, the battle becoming more and more fierce with each level they approached. Would they reach their destination? Aragorn was no longer certain, but still he battled on.

(The Citadel)

Saruman had fled Boromir's mind, that was true, but he had found no welcome in his own body. He was held in a tiny corner of his own mind, while his master enjoyed unlimited control. It was almost enough to make him sympathetic to the warrior, but not enough. He burned for revenge on the Gondorian.

Orders were given, Orcs were dispatched to the lower levels, not Mordor Orcs, but the strapping Uruk-hai. Master was taking no chances on Aragorn reaching him. If he should do so, however, there were other ways of destroying him.

The spells were laid, the trap complete. Now, all that remained was the presence of that ragged, wretched Dunedain.


	24. TwentyFour

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth; they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic. **

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**A special thank you is in order, to Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless encouragement. Thanks so much for being a sounding board, hon, I really appreciate it!**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.**

**Chapter Twenty Four**

Aragorn, Boromir, and Tanathel stormed up the steps into the Courtyard of the Fountain, blades flashing in the sun as they brought the fight to the highest level of the City. All sported slashes from the Orc blades, but none were willing to stand down and admit defeat.

They met the oncoming Uruk-hai without hesitation, Steel rang together and the fighting grew, if possible, even more intense. Boromir cried out to Aragorn.

"Go! We will hold them here, go!"

Aragorn took the hint and headed into the Citadel, knowing the two would fight until their last breath to protect his back. He trusted them with his very life. And Saruman remained to be brought down.

He stormed into the Hall, his fury great, his image terrible in his wrath. "Saruman!" he thundered.

The wizard rose from the Throne, his face impassive. "Welcome, Dunedain," he purred. "Come, let us talk. You need have no fear of me, Aragorn, I grow weary of this strife."

Aragorn slowed his advance, his blade still held ready, though he sensed no lie in the words. "What is there to discuss, murderer?" he spat. "How you will die for your crimes? Those are the only words I wish to hear from you."

"Indeed? Please, Aragorn, sit with me. I admit my actions might have been hasty. But can you not see, they were in the greater good. You had grown complacent in your rule, you needed action to remind you of what you are. You needed a goad to bring you from your rut."

The wizard's voice droned on, and Aragorn fought its insidious power. Saruman's main power lay in his voice, and Aragorn had not forgotten that. What he had not counted on was the additional power behind Saruman. His sword lowered and he actually took a step forward before he was able to shake off the spell hidden in the words. "Lies, all of it!" He again raised his blade, keeping it between them, and Saruman's eyes narrowed.

"Do not so quickly dismiss what I have said, Elessar," Saruman demanded, his voice still seductive and sweet. He gestured and Anduril went flying from the King's hand, coming to rest against the wall. "I could end your life with a single thought, but I choose to have speech with you instead. Come, sit with me. Let us talk as friends, and perhaps I might give you what you truly wish."

Aragorn moved forward as one in a dream, fighting the cloud this creature sought to place in his mind. "You can give me nothing, Saruman. Arwen is gone, the children as well. All you could do is hand back my City, and I do not believe that is your intent." As he spoke, his mind became clearer, and once more he was able to throw off the influence of that dangerous voice.

"Ah, but Elessar, did I not restore Boromir to you? I have power you have never dreamed of, Dunedain, and that power could be yours for the asking. All you need do is take my hand, and all shall be as it was." The wizard held out a hand, his expression inviting. With the other, he gestured and a bier was brought forward.

Aragorn felt the breath leave him in a rush and he fell to his knees before it. "Arwen," he whispered. She looked as if she were only sleeping. Gone were the grievous wounds he knew she had suffered, gone were all signs of what she had endured for him. "Arwen…"

"She can be yours again, Elessar," Saruman's voice spoke again, though he heard it not with his ears but in his mind. "I can give you this. Your children as well, if that is your wish. All you need do is take my hand in friendship."

Aragorn stared, first at Saruman, then at Arwen, then back again. His mind reeled with disbelief and doubt. How could this be? It was true, Saruman had resurrected Boromir; could he truly do so with Arwen? Had they been so grievously wrong about the wizard?

He fought to clear his mind. One hand reached out toward the bier and touched the sleeve of Arwen's gown, feeling the silk under his questing fingers. He traced the contours of her face, feeling the flawless skin once more as he had longed to do, though it was cold and stiff in death. Tears ran unashamed down his face as he regarded her, feeling again the ache in his breast at her loss.

His eyes drank in the sight of her, as though committing her to memory, though the memory of her was still clear and strong in his mind. His mind was adrift in a sea of confusion; but one thought beat a steady pulse at him. She could be restored to him. He could have her love again, feel her next to him, hear her voice, her laughter, everything. Then his eye caught on the Evenstar, arranged neatly at her throat.

He turned his eyes away, struggling for control. Gone were the sounds of battle outside; gone were all sounds except that of his beating heart and the wizard's voice. "She could be yours forever, Elessar," it crooned to him reassuringly. "Immortality could be yours, yours and hers together, if you but take my hand."

The words beat at him, striking at his heart, his mind, his very soul. Slowly, slowly he turned to face Saruman, his eyes red-rimmed, his face full of despair. He moved forward, one slow step at a time, until he could raise his eyes and meet the wizard's. He raised one hand as though to take Saruman's…

…and slashed out with his dagger, bloodying the wizard's cheek. "Never would I betray Arwen in the fashion you name!" he snarled. He turned to run and was sent sprawling by a blast from the wizard's fingers. How could that be? His staff had been broken, his magic curtailed by Gandalf. He should not have had the power to restore Boromir, nor to cloud Aragorn's mind as easily as he had. What had happened?

The wizard's voice assailed him again, though it no longer held any attraction for the King of Men. It had deepened, somehow, was rougher. And the language it spoke, Valar, how could they have missed the signs? True evil could not be destroyed, only defeated for a time. Sauron had returned!

The Black Speech of Mordor poured from Saruman's lips and Aragorn felt himself weakening. His dagger slipped from numb fingers and he fought for breath. Was this, then, his end? He was so weak!

A cry from the entranceway drew his attention and he used some of his precious strength to turn his head. Boromir and Tanathel had fought their way into the Hall of Kings, it seemed. And their entrance had not gone unnoticed. Sauron's attention snapped to the two warriors and Aragorn forced himself to move, inch by hard-won inch, toward Anduril.

Sauron was laughing as he held the two in thrall. "Fools, all!" he thundered. "Did you think by destroying my Ring you could unmake _me?_ I cannot be unmade!" He laughed again, a chilling sound, and beckoned to Tanathel. "Come to me, child. You were taught my arts and should prove useful."

"I was taught the killing ways of my father's people, but they are not who I am," she spat back. "I am a Ranger of Ithilien, and a servant of the King. I would sooner bed down with a snake than take up with the likes of you." A spate of vile-sounding Haradrim came from her lips, only to fall suddenly silent as she clutched her throat and fought to breathe.

Boromir had caught the slight movement near the wall and fought to keep Sauron's attention fixed elsewhere. "You're killing her!" he shouted, trying to force his way forward, only to cry out in agony as flames appeared to race over his skin.

Tanathel had fallen to the ground, both hands at her throat. Sauron gestured and she was suddenly able to breathe once more, and looked up at him, her hatred evident. She closed her ears to Boromir's screams; she could do nothing to help him yet. "Release Boromir," she demanded raggedly. "Release him, and I will come to you full willing." Eru, let this work!

Boromir was released from the spell, patently unharmed, though he seemed unconscious. No burns decorated his skin, though the heat had been intense. "Come to me, assassin child," Sauron all but purred. Tanathel moved forward slowly, inching her way toward the dais and the being of Evil who lurked there. Closer, closer; until she was standing within a finger's reach. She stood there, defiant, her dark eyes glaring hatred, and suddenly, her arm moved. The punching blade stopped a hair's breadth from Sauron's face. "Fool!" he snarled. "Die!"

A great roar of rage from behind caught his attention and he turned, only to find Aragorn had recovered Anduril and much of his strength. The King of the West was on the attack and Sauron had to backpedal to avoid the slashing blade. He lifted a hand to stop Aragorn…

…and Tanathel's dagger found his back. He turned to her, and Boromir's blade barred his path. He was assailed on all sides, his attention split between the three and the damage Tanathel had inflicted on Saruman's body. He grasped the Ranger by the throat, lifting her clear of the floor, intending to use her as a shield against the other two. She kicked and flailed, to no avail. Her struggles were growing weaker by the second.

An arrow's shaft seemed to sprout from Saruman's throat and he dropped the near-dead Ranger to bring both hands into play, trying to staunch the flow of blood. Then Anduril cleaved the head from Saruman's body. A great cry went up, sending shivers down their spines, and a wind blew through the Hall, then all was silent.

Aragorn looked up from where he had sprawled to find Faramir standing in the doorway, another arrow nocked and ready. He nodded his heartfelt thanks to his Steward and then rose, making his unsteady way toward Tanathel, to join Boromir at her side.

"She's alive," Boromir reported, relief flooding his words. He, too, was weak from Sauron's torture, and his breath came in ragged gasps. "I don't think she's badly hurt. Not all of this blood appears to be hers."

Aragorn simply nodded once again and forced himself to rise as Faramir came to his aid. _"Hannon lle, mellon-nin,"_ he said softly as he leaned on the other man for support. "We must tell our people that it is over."

**TBC**


	25. TwentyFive

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth; they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic. **

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**A special thank you is in order, to Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless encouragement. Thanks so much for being a sounding board, hon, I really appreciate it!**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.**

Chapter Twenty Five

**(The Houses of Healing)**

Tanathel slowly swam back to wakefulness, forcing herself to remain calm as she registered each individual ache and actual pain. Her throat burned like she had swallowed hot coals, her arms ached up into her shoulders, and one leg felt like it had been nearly sliced off completely. A raspy groan left her throat and one hand went to it reflexively, trying to cool the burning sensation.

"The Healers say you shouldn't try to talk just yet," a soft voice said from somewhere near her left eyebrow. "You're lucky, at that. They were afraid there'd be lasting damage to your throat." She knew that voice, but her head was spinning so she couldn't quite place it. Soft, mellow, and quite pleasant to hear, actually. "If you're feeling up to it, a bit of water would do ye good."

A small hand moved to support the back of her head so she could drink and she finally caught the name that had eluded her. Pippin. The Hobbit had come to sit with her. Had she truly been so badly injured? A quick rundown of her aches and pains seemed to agree with that notion and she fought not to groan aloud again. How to ask him all the questions that burned in her mind? Was Sauron defeated? Did the King still live? And Boromir, what had become of him? She closed her eyes against a wave of dizziness.

"It's all right, you know. You're allowed to be lazy for a few days." There was laughter in the Halfling's voice and if she could have moved, she would have throttled him where he sat. Then he placed a cool cloth on her forehead and she forgave him the sin of cheerfulness. "You're to stay abed for at least three days more. The Healers want to be sure there's no lasting harm done."

Tanathel could have screamed from frustration if she'd been able. Surely his being here meant that everything had turned out right in the end, but there was so much she didn't know! _How_ was she to ask him her questions? She had to know, surely he could understand that! She turned her dark eyes to him, trying to convey her curiosity without the aid of her voice, and feeling like she was failing miserably.

"Easy, now," Pippin said softly as he replaced the cloth with a fresh one. "Faramir's fine, Aragorn's fine, and Boromir is as grouchy a patient as he ever was," he said flippantly. "He's no worse off than you, but you both look like you'd seen one too many hearty celebrations lately. Sauron's been defeated, did you remember that? Faramir put an arrow in his gullet and Aragorn finished him off. He's gone, for now."

Tanathel released the breath she hadn't even known she was holding. She took his little hand in hers, trying to convey her thanks to him without words.

**(The Council Chambers)**

"These people have lost everything. I will not ask them for more!" Aragorn's voice rang out in fury and those gathered in the room took a collective step backward. "Nor will I beg for aid from those who have proven their loyalty with their own heart's blood."

Not a sound was audible, not even a cricket chirped in the silence that followed. Aragorn turned his steely gaze on those present, "Now that we have established our limitations, Faramir, what is available for barter? Have we anything in our coffers to pay for tradesmen to rebuild?"

"Now wait just a minute there, laddie," Gimli began firmly. "We're not having any o' that, and that's final. My people will be more than willing to help you rebuild. You've shed more than enough blood over Middle Earth; now, let Middle Earth do for you. And after all, we Dwarves are the best stonemasons in the world. We'll have this place to rights in no time at all."

"And we Elves will bring birds and flowers back to live here, as we have done before," Legolas stated firmly. "We will make this city a bright and happy place once more."

"And your army will need mounts, which we will supply, in return for some small considerations." Eomer spoke up with a small smile. "Nothing that you can't grant, do not fear. We treasure our horses as dear as our kin, and I merely wish to be assured of their good treatment. Your men would need to understand this."

"My friends." Aragorn's eyes were full, his voice husky with unvoiced emotion. "This is beyond my wildest hopes. What can I give you in exchange for such kindness, such loyalty?" He sank back into his seat, looking thunderstruck.

Faramir rose and cleared his throat, carefully regarding Aragorn. "If I may say so, Sire, you have already given too much. To have defeated Sauron not just once, but twice, and at such a cost! These people, they are your friends, your brothers; they seek only to ease your way. Leave everything with me, and we will finalize the agreements to everyone's satisfaction. Go, my lord. You need rest, as much if not more than your companions. Now is not the time for you to be making life-shaping decisions." He brought himself then to kneel before the man he had come to respect and love, his king, his friend, his brother in arms. "You have endured much, my friend, much more than any man should have to bear. Go, and rest your weary heart. Make no decisions now. Take time to listen to your heart, and let it guide you." He placed his fingers gently under Aragorn's chin and tipped his face up. "You have come to be more a father to me than Denethor ever was, as much as Boromir tried to be. And it is with a son's love that I tell you these things. Go and rest, and leave the daily strife for a time. None would gainsay you this. And if they do, then I shall deal with them accordingly, because I love you and would not be parted from you before it is time. But you must rest."

Aragorn nodded, for a moment looking very frail. "Then see me to my rest, Faramir, and I will do as you ask. Gentlemen, we will meet again in two days' time." He allowed Faramir to lead him to his rooms, his heart heavy with grief. To see these places again, without Arwen in them, he was not certain he could bear it. Best to have this man, who had in truth become like a son to him, nearby.

Faramir stepped between Aragorn and the doors and opened them slowly, keeping himself between the room and his king until he was certain things had been cleaned and replaced properly. Then he threw them wide and stepped aside, allowing Aragorn to enter the room.

The sitting room was bright in the sunshine, airy, yet somehow seemed empty to Aragorn. He could feel the lack of Arwen's presence as keenly as he felt the warmth of the sun; she had spent much time here, engaged in reading, her correspondence, and just enjoying the openness of the place.

He felt tears on his face once more and struggled to control his emotions. He had thought his grief spent. Clearly he had been mistaken.

He moved further into the room, idly touching this chair, that pillow, each and every item that Arwen had used to make the room comfortable and gracious. His eyes burned, but he would not allow the tears to fall. He noted that Faramir was waiting just inside the door and silently blessed the man for his perception. This was hard enough to do now; it would surely have been near to impossible, had he been alone.

His fingers found the doorway to his bedchamber and he paled visibly. His eyes were once more haunted with grief, and his hands trembled as they slowly drew open the doors. Inside, all was as it should be. His things on his side of the room, Arwen's still gracing the other. Even the floor had been scrubbed to a high shine, and he swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. No trace remained of that night, no indication that Arwen was gone, the children dead, everything in this room seemed to say the whole thing had been some terrible nightmare; but in his heart, he knew the truth.

Faramir cleared his throat and Aragorn turned to regard him, sorrow deadening his grey-blue eyes and adding years to his face. "You should sleep, my lord," Faramir suggested softly as he steered his king toward the bed. "Time alone will ease your pain; there are no herbs or brews to cure grief. There are some, however, that will help you to sleep." He indicated the goblet on the bedside table. "And sleep you must, to regain your strength."

Aragorn drained the cup, then composed himself upon the coverlet, his fingers digging deeply into the softness he found there. Faramir remained only until he heard the king's breathing deepen into sleep, and then silently took his leave.

**(The Houses of Healing)**

"I am not going to lie abed for days, man!" came a snarl from within the room and the women in the hallways quickly found other places to be. The Captain-General's temper was legendary and they had no desire to witness it firsthand.

"I am sorry, Lord Boromir, but until we are certain you took no lasting harm, you must rest here," the Healer was responding firmly. Boromir thought he must look like a petulant child, and relented.

"It is no matter, Calas," he snapped. "I am hale and whole, except for a few sword strikes, and they are minor. I have no burns to treat, no wounds to stitch, no illness to purge. Leave off, and let me be."

"Nevertheless, my lord, you will bide here on my order. Three days, no less. And on that fourth morning, I shall rejoice to see the back of you once more." A twinkle of humor in the man's green eyes belied the insult, and Boromir subsided slightly.

"At least fetch one of my friends to me, that I might have some company," he wheedled as he flopped back against the pillows. Truthfully, he was bone-weary, but to let the healer know that would keep him here longer. And he was well aware that the weariness would be cured by a day's rest. He'd soldiered long enough to know.

And companionship would stop the endless questions in his mind, at least for a time. He was returned from the dead. A frightening fact, that. Almost unbelievable, save for the fact that he was here, breathing and thinking.

What could he do here? He had been trained from birth to take the Stewardship when his father passed over; but in truth, he'd had no desire for it. Faramir had been the wiser choice, though Denethor would never have admitted it. No, Boromir had no desire to take the Stewardship from his brother.

What of his soldiery? Surely there had been another Captain-General appointed in his place! High Warden of the White Tower, as well.

The military life was the only one he knew. He was no statesman, certainly. His father had remarked at one point that if it fell to Boromir to be diplomatic, the war was as good as lost. No, he would have to find a niche somewhere in Gondor's army.

He puzzled again over his good fortune. Returned from death itself! It had been a gift to him, though he had not seen it that way at the time. Saruman had given him life, and in that life, he could undo some of the wrong he had done before his death. He had a chance to atone for his mistakes, to live his life the way it was meant, not as the arrogant, over-confident, swaggering boor he had been when the Quest began. Still he heard his words, "Gondor has no King. Gondor _needs_ no King." They made him blush with shame.

He had finally learned humility, on the slopes of Amon Hen. He had accepted the truth of what Aragorn was, he had come to terms with the fact that the way of life he had known all his years was coming to an end. The King was indeed returning to Gondor, and he would not be alive to see it. He had given Aragorn his oath, nonetheless, and meant every word. He had regretted that his life was ending, that he would have no chance to actually serve his King.

Now, he had that chance. And he had already proved his worth, by helping Aragorn oust the wizard and Sauron from Minas Tirith. But, by Eru's Blood, he would not stop there. No, his King still had need of him. Comforted by the thought, he slept.


	26. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth; they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic. **

**Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.**

**A special thank you is in order, to Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless encouragement. Thanks so much for being a sounding board, hon, I really appreciate it!**

**Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.**

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

**Epilogue**

The Courtyard of the Fountain was filled to overflowing with people. The White Tree was in bloom, the mood festive, though the damage from Sauron's brief tenancy was still painfully evident.

Aragorn stood at the head of the steps, looking splendid in his Court robes, though the sorrow in his face would never truly fade. As one, the crowd calmed and quieted, waiting to see what their King would say to them.

"My friends, my people," he began. "These times have been a trial to us all. We have all lost friends, family, loved ones. Words cannot express my sorrow, my regret. We have all been touched by this horror, and survived. We must continue to survive, to live as intended, that our loved ones' tragic ends shall not be in vain." He shifted slightly, keeping his attention on those that mattered; his people. "We have all been touched by evil, and have been reminded most forcefully that true evil cannot be destroyed; only vanquished for a time. Not for nothing has Minas Tirith stood guard all these centuries against Mordor. Never again will we allow that guard to fall, our vigilance to lapse." His voice took on strength. "Never again will this City fall to the Enemy!"

A roar of approval answered him, and he took heart from it. He'd been afraid these people were too careworn, too beaten down to truly respond to his words. "To that end, there are some changes I will make. Do not fear; these changes will please you, I am certain. Boromir, come forth!"

Boromir strode forward amid the cheers, the sunlight glinting off his newly forged armor, and knelt before his King. "What would my King have of me?" he asked simply.

Aragorn raised him up and made certain he would be heard. "Boromir, you long held the defenses of this City and commanded her armies to great effect. I would ask this of you: that you again assume the mantle of leadership that you wear so well, as Captain-General of Gondor's armies. What say you?"

"I would be honored, my King," Boromir replied with a dignified nod. Only those who knew him well would see the joy lurking in his eyes.

"Then take up your duties, Captain-General!" Aragorn clapped him on the shoulder and smiled, waiting only for Boromir to take his place in the Honor Guard before speaking again. "Faramir, Steward of Gondor, come forth!"

Faramir stepped up. "Faramir, Steward of Gondor, Prince of Ithilien, you have borne great pain and suffering at the hands of the Enemy and remained loyal to Gondor nonetheless. For this, we honor you." Aragorn lifted his chin slightly, knowing he was about to put a cat among the pigeons, but determined to have his way. "As there are no heirs of my body, I name you my Heir."

Faramir bowed low to hide the tears in his eyes and composed himself quickly. "It will be my honor, my lord, and let us all hope that occasion shall be long in coming."

Aragorn then turned his attention to Eowyn. "You have suffered much for the good of Gondor, my lady. You have shown true loyalty and exceptional bravery, and for that, I offer my most heartfelt gratitude. Please accept this small gift in appreciation of your sacrifices." He opened a small box to display the ring there. "This ring I give to thee, and all your daughters and their daughters. It was most beloved of Queen Arwen for the fire in the stone." The ruby lay gleaming against the silver of the setting, almost seeming to pulse with a beat of its own.

Eowyn took it gratefully and set it upon her finger, holding it up to the sun to catch the brilliance of the stone. "It is a far greater gift than I have earned, my lord, and I will strive to be worthy of it." So saying, she stepped back.

Aragorn nodded and turned to Eomer. "Eomer-king of Rohan, you have long been my friend and ally. You have come to my aid many times, and I am grateful to have had the support of so loyal a friend. Please accept this token of my esteem." He offered a long sword, crafted by the finest smiths in Gondor, properly weighted and designed for ease of use on horseback.

Eomer received the sword and held it aloft, turning it over in his gaze and giving it a practice swing. Then he returned his gaze to Aragorn, his eyes intense. "And to you, I say this: That the Oath of Eorl has bound us to Gondor's aid, but no longer do we fight merely for the sake of the Oath. We fight for friendship, and in recognition of the blood shed on both sides for the good of all. And we are ever willing to come to Gondor's aid."

Aragorn gave him a nod of thanks and moved to Legolas. "Ever you have been my friend, since I was a boy. I have not the words to express my gratitude for your help. I hope that this small token shall adequately express my gratitude and joy that you remain so." The gift was a small crystal square, in which was embedded a blossom from the White Tree. "Let this ever show the connections between our people, the friendship that has grown between Men and Elves."

Legolas gave him a proper bow, with just the hint of a smile. Then it was Gimli's turn. "For the Dwarves, I offer my gratitude, and ask what you would have in return for such loyalty and honor. Whatever you should ask, it shall be given, if it is within my power."

Gimli stood forward, holding up Falin's axe. "Falin, son of Farin, fell in battle in the tunnels beneath this city. What we Dwarves would ask is that our sacrifice never be forgotten. We would ask that his axe be ever displayed in a place of honor in your Hall."

Aragorn took the axe, his face grave. "It shall rest always in my Hall, Gimli, son of Gloin, with the highest regard." Faramir took the axe from him with a murmur and went to see it done, and finally Aragorn came to the Hobbits.

"You have never failed to amaze me, either of you," he said at last. "Your stature may be less, but your deeds would make proud the mightiest of men. I have nothing worthy of such bravery, nothing worthy of the love and loyalty you have given me since the first day we met. What would you have of me?"

Pippin gave Merry a nudge. Merry stepped forward, his face composed. "We have considered it our honor and privilege to serve, my lord, and need no recognition for our deeds. Rather, we would see Gondor restored. And in aid of this most earnest endeavor, we have sent word to some friends to have them bring some things for you."

The crowd parted, and Pippin continued when Merry indicated he should take over. "The Shire had a bountiful harvest this year, and we thought Minas Tirith could use a few fresh foodstuffs. So we sent for what the Shire could spare, and here it is!"

Sam stepped forward from the head of the procession of carts and gave Aragorn a low bow. "The Shire has come to the aid of the High King, as it should," he stated firmly. "We are ever at your service."

Aragorn was thunderstruck. Abruptly, his face lightened and he laughed softly. "I should never underestimate you, my dear friends! Very well, then, let us distribute this wealth among our people! Sam, Peregrine, Meriadoc, see to it, please." He had to either laugh or cry.

"There is one more I would honor. Where is Tanathel of Ithilien?" Aragorn had not seen her, and he hoped she had not simply returned to her duties. Then she stepped from the crowd and he breathed a sigh of relief. He quickly schooled his expression when he marked her halting progress. "Tanathel of Ithilien, you have more than proven your worth to Gondor. There is no gift worthy of your bravery and sacrifice. I offer you a full commission in Gondor's army, and placement as Archery Instructor at the Military Academy, answerable directly to the Captain-General and myself. What say you?"

Tanathel straightened, no longer relying on the cane to stand tall. "I accept, my King, and with my thanks." She made to kneel and Aragorn stopped her quickly.

"You should rest your leg, Lieutenant Tanathel. Come, we have feasting and celebrating to attend!"

END

(Have no fear, the story continues! I am already hard at work on the sequel! DJ)


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